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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 































A Betrayed Trust 


A STORY OF OUR OWN TIMES 
AND COUNTRY 


H Romance or tbe middle Ulcst 


W. T. McCLURE 

( I 


Nashville, Tenn.; Dallas, Tex. 
Publishing House of the M. E. Church, South 
Smith & Lamar, Agents 
1903 






THE LIBRARY OF 
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COPY B. 1 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 190?, 

By the Book Agents, Methodist Episcopal Church, South, 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 


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AFFECTIONA TEL T DEDICA TED 


TO 


MY DEAR WIFE DORA COTTEY McCLURE 



PREFACE. 


This little story is sent out to the Ep worth 
Leaguers of the Methodist Episcopal Church, South, 
as a character study. As such it deals with the motives 
and purposes of the heart, and seeks by living illustra- 
tions to show how these influences conduct and affect 
its virtue. 

It pleads for fidelity in the keeping of vows whose 
motives and purposes are good. The disposition to 
lightly esteem sacred obligations is one of the most 
appalling tendencies of our times. It is clearly seen 
in affairs political throughout our entire country, and 
seriously threatens the perpetuity of our national gov- 
ernment; and from the days of Ananias and Sap- 
phira to the present it has been more or less prevalent 
in the Church of God, menacing everything we hold 
dear in our holy Christianity. 

The study also endeavors to make plain the doc- 
trine of temptation as taught in the Word of God. 
In the two leading temptations, two very dissimilar 
motives are presented. The first is an apparently 
harmless one, to please a friend ; the second is a deep, 
villainous scheme to obtain a selfish end, even though 
it cause the ruin of a friend. But the former suggested 
the latter, and the reader is left to judge which is the 
greater sin. 


(V) 


VI 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


To please a friend within the realm of righteous 
conduct is a commendable action, but to please a friend 
at the expense of the right and of one’s honor is an aw- 
ful crime. “Let him that thinketh he standeth take 
heed lest he fall.” 

If this little book proves to be a help and a stimulus 
to better living in the life of any of our young people, 
the purpose of the author will be fully met and he 
will ever be grateful to God for the privilege of 
writing it. W. T. McClure, 

Spring-field , Mo. 


September 5, 1903. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

Page 

Roxbury i 

CHAPTER II. 

A Mother’s Anxiety 21 

CHAPTER III. 

Learning the Business 38 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Subtle Charm 55 

CHAPTER V. 

The Mystery Explained 67 

CHAPTER VI. 

John Has a Visitor 78 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Storm Breaks 90 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Tempted and Tried 107 

CHAPTER IX. 

The Die Is Cast 124 

CHAPTER X. 

The Net Is Drawn 133 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


viii 

CHAPTER XI. 

Page 

The Vigilance Committee 143 

CHAPTER XII. 

The Preliminary Trial 157 

CHAPTER XIII. 

The Trial Continued 174 

CHAPTER XIV. 

The Trial Concluded 187 

CHAPTER XV. 

The Sequel 199 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 

CHAPTER I. 

ROXBURY. 

Halfway up the Boston Mountain, in one of our 
Western States, upon a fertile plateau of the Ozark 
range, is a picturesque little village which we here 
designate Roxbury. In approaching Roxbury from 
the north one begins the ascent of the mountain at 
a point just five miles distant from the village; yet 
in following the road, which at first winds around the 
base of the mountain and then ascends by zigzag 
stages to the summit, one must travel at least twice 
five miles. 

If the journey seems monotonous to the weary 
traveler, the prospect which lies beyond will fully re- 
pay all his labor. The beautiful landscape, the in- 
spiring atmosphere, and the delightful associations 
in Roxbury soon make him forget all about the tire- 
some mountain journey. 

The plateau of which we have spoken is some 
seven or eight miles in length and perhaps as much 
as five miles in width. When first discovered, it was 
covered over with a thick growth of cane such as is 
found upon the rich soil of the river bottoms, but this 
has long since given way, under skillful cultivation, 
to productive fields and gardens. 

It is dotted over here and there with modest but 

(0 


2 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


comfortable farmhouses and large, commodious 
barns. Beautiful meadows, with many fine cattle and 
splendid thoroughbred horses grazing upon them, 
are to be seen in every direction. Magnificent apple 
orchards cover the hillsides, and blue grass, growing 
as luxuriantly as it does in the most fertile regions 
of Kentucky, adorns all the yards and enriches all 
the meadows. Flowers of every description and of 
the most bewitching colors line the walks to the 
houses and often festoon the front gate, greeting the 
visitor with a perfume most enchanting. 

A beautiful valley stretching from the south toward 
the northwest lies almost in the center of this de- 
lightful plateau. In this valley, like a pearl in a great 
shell, is the village of Roxbury. A clear stream of 
water running from the mountains on the south to 
the great basin on the north with tortuous channel 
threads its way in and out through the valley and 
through the very center of the village. The high- 
way to Texas and Mexico leads through this valley, 
and Clear Creek, as the stream is rightly named, 
crosses it some six or eight times in the short space 
of a mile. 

The highway forms the principal street in Rox- 
bury. There are a few cross streets running east and 
west, and here and there a short street running north 
and south, but no regular blocks, such as one might 
see in any other town as large as Roxbury. All the 
business of the village is conducted on the highway. 
There are four general stores, two drug stores, two 
blacksmith shops, a post office, a doctor’s office, a 
small hotel, and perhaps a half-dozen other small 
houses used for meat market, barber shops, restau- 


ROXBURY. 


O 


rants, and so on. Back of these business houses, and 
extending up to the summit of the hills upon both 
sides of the valley, are many comfortable cottages, 
which shelter a contented and happy people. 

Twenty years ago Roxbury was as isolated a place 
as one might wish to see. Indeed, it had no con- 
nection with the outside world except through the 
daily mails. There was not a telegraph line, a rail- 
road, or a steamboat line within a hundred miles of 
its quiet precincts. There was nothing to disturb the 
monotony of its usual proceedings, except the coming 
and the going of the stagecoach every morning and 
evening. At these times there was a flurry of ex- 
citement, as the people in good-humored familiarity 
gathered around the post office to get their mail, and 
jostled and joked each other with the playfulness of 
children. 

But Roxbury was by no means a dull place. It 
had its own college sitting upon the summit of its 
western hill, and nearly all of the inhabitants of the 
town were graduates of the institution. The college 
was older than the village, and it was its fair name 
and wonderful success that brought Roxbury into 
existence. Besides this noble institution, the village 
had its churches, two of them, its public school build- 
ing, of which it was justly proud, and its own genial 
society of college professors and their families, and 
scores of finely educated young men and women 
from all sections of our great republic as visitors 
and health seekers, in addition to those^ born with- 
in its sacred precints. None of the people were 
rich, and yet none of them were so poor that they 
needed to be helped. Everybody lived upon an 


4 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


equal plane with his neighbors, and there was always 
a hearty welcome for all who might wish to come to 
every social event or public service given in the vil- 
lage. 

The citizens were for the most part farmers whose 
lands lay around the town, a few well-to-do gen- 
tlemen who lived upon the interest of their formerly 
accumulated capital, a doctor of medicine, two min- 
isters of the gospel, the college president, and the 
professors and the merchants named above. Among 
these merchants was one who, by strict attention to 
business for many years, together with a most rigid 
economy, had accumulated quite a fortune for an in- 
habitant of Roxbury. He was a modest, unpreten- 
tious man, who lived like his neighbors in the enjoy- 
ment of all the necessaries of life, but with no ex- 
ternal indication that he was worth any more money 
than they. He was not a miser. On the contrary, 
he dispensed without ostentation a broad and liberal 
charity to the many poor in the country around him. 
He was justly esteemed by all who knew him as a 
man of upright life and of straightforward dealing in 
all of his business transactions. 

In his younger days, before the great civil war, he 
carried on an extensive business. He had clerks in 
his store, negroes on his farms, teamsters on the road, 
and by his thrift and energy he contrived to form a 
market for the people in general, and to afford em- 
ployment for nearly all the idle men in the vicinity. 
But now he was growing old. He did not care to 
be worried with a large business. He had plenty of 
money to support himself and his wife the remainder 
of their days, and was therefore exempt from that 


ROXBURY. 


5 


slavish toil which is an absolute necessity in the life of 
many. And so he dismissed his clerks, let his stock 
of goods run down, took the teamsters off the road, 
and, under pretense of doing a small business, con- 
fined himself to the store every day. Many wondered 
that he did not quit business altogether, not knowing 
that a man who has been actively engaged in business 
all of his life cannot bear to be idle even in his old 
age. But there was another reason why he confined 
himself so assiduously to the store, which will appear 
as our story develops. 

On his large farm, which he called the plantation, 
he usually kept one white man, and, after the negroes 
were freed, as many of his old slaves as cared to stay 
and work for wages. But after a time death removed 
his favorite negro man, and the others soon became 
so indolent and worthless that he dismissed them all, 
put his farm into pasture, and employed one white 
man to care for all of it. 

The merchant, whose name was Ewing Murray, 
was a very large man. He was tall and well propor- 
tioned, and in his youth had been as erect as an In- 
dian, but now he was somewhat stooped about the 
shoulders. His head was very large and entirely 
bald, except a few silken locks that fringed the base 
of his skull and hung in ringlets about his ears and 
upon the back of his neck. His high forehead and 
well-defined nose, mouth, and chin indicated strong, 
virile traits of character. His keen, deep-blue eyes 
revealed a kind, tender heart and great generosity of 
soul. At the same time they were capable of ev- 
pressing the greatest possible determination or the 
most fiery wrath and indignation, yet he was a peace- 


6 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


able man, who feared God reverently and loved his 
fellow-man with a sincere devotion. 

It was at the close of a beautiful day in the early 
autumn that Mr. Murray sat on the small platform in 
front of his store, apparently wholly absorbed in study- 
ing some minute spot on the ground directly in front 
of him. He was evidently revolving some very serious 
question in his mind. 

The sun was slowly sinking into the bosom of a 
fleecy cloud in the western horizon, and was gilding 
the top of the spire and the minarets of the college 
with pure gold, and flooding the valley below with a 
soft, mellow light that gave added beauty to its al- 
ready bewitching scenery. A Sabbathlike stillness 
brooded over the entire village. The gentle murmur 
of the creek, rippling over the white stones in its peb- 
bly bed, could be distinctly heard where Mr. Murray 
was sitting. The twitter of the birds in the tree tops 
beyond the store sounded like a chorus of children's 
voices in the distance. The lowing of the cattle in the 
meadows, the crowing of the cocks in the distant 
barnyards, the tinkling of the bells upon the home- 
coming herd of village cows in the valley, floated out 
upon the evening air in most charming strains of 
plaintive music. The calm serenity of the hour, per- 
meated by nature's sweetly solemn music, intensified 
the seriousness of Mr. Murray's pensive mood. 

All the other merchants were closing up for the 
night, and now and then as they passed by him one 
after another called out pleasantly: “Come, Uncle 
Ewing; it is time to close up." Generally he made 
some reply to pleasant sorties of this kind, but this 
evening he took no notice of them. He wore a 


ROXBURY. 


7 


troubled, perplexed look on his face, and^sat deeply 
buried in his own thoughts. The truth is that, not- 
withstanding his usually genial and cheerful disposi- 
tion, his seeming independence in the financial world, 
his charming home, and his most devoted and worthy 
wife, Mr. Murray sometimes fell into inexplicable fits 
of melancholy, and at such times would sit, chewing 
his tobacco and whittling a pine stick, in abject silence 
for a whole day at a time. It was usually some very 
trivial thing that brought on these spells of despond- 
ency, and it was usually some very trivial thing that 
dispelled the gloom as suddenly as it had come. If 
there was any real reason for his present dejection, 
it was that his man on the farm had that day notified 
him that he was going West and that his place must 
be filled at once by some other man. Albert (the man 
on the farm) had satisfactorily managed the planta- 
tion for the last five years. He knew just what the 
merchant wanted done on the place and just how to do 
it, and he did it without the suggestion or oversight 
of anybody. Mr. Murray gave himself no concern 
whatever about the plantation beyond receiving daily 
Albert’s faithful report. The thought of losing so 
valuable a servant, with no probability of finding any 
one who, even after months of training, could take 
his place, was enough to give him the blues. 

There is no telling how long Mr. Murray would 
have sat there, with his eyes fixed upon the ground 
and his mind wholly absorbed in thought, had he not 
been aroused from his reverie by the sound of a foot- 
fall in front of him, accompanied by the very pleasant 
voice of a young man saying: “Good evening, Uncle 
Ewing.” Everybody called Mr. Murray “Uncle Ew- 


8 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


ing,” and it was therefore no surprise to him that this 
total stranger should address him so familiarly. Mr. 
Murray looked up and hastily scanned the young man 
from head to foot. He was a short, sturdy young 
fellow, square-shouldered and very muscular in form. 
He had steel-gray eyes, dark-brown hair, and an hon- 
est, good-looking face. His clothes bespoke his pov- 
erty. His straw hat had evidently seen hard service 
through two seasons. His coat and trousers were 
too short for him, and both were well worn. His 
shoes were old and rusty, and here and there were 
worn into holes. He carried on his shoulder a short 
hickory stick, to which was attached a small bundle 
of clothing. And over all, from hat to shoes, was a 
thick coating of dust. 

Still staring at the young man, Mr. Murray said in 
interrogative tones : “Good evening, sir.” 

Whereupon the young man advanced, took off his 
hat, and, putting it under his arm, began to fish in 
his pocket mysteriously for a note, which he finally 
found and handed to Mr. Murray, who took it from 
his hand and read : 

Dear Mr. Murray: This will introduce to you my son John. 
He is seeking employment. He is a good, honest boy, who 
has no bad habits, who is sincere and always truthful, as I 
believe. But he knows very little of the world and the ways 
of the world. It is with no small degree of anxiety about 
his future that his mother and I have consented for him to go 
forth to make his way in the world. If he could get a good 
place, with some good, honest man like yourself, we would 
feel perfectly satisfied about him. 

If you cannot give him anything to do, perhaps you can 
direct him to some other good man who can use him. We 
shall ever hold ourselves under lasting obligations to you for 
anything you may be able to do for our dear boy. Hoping to 


1 ROXBURY. 9 

hear from you through John at no distant day, I am yours 
truly, j. Q. Carey. 

Mr. Murray folded the note and put it into his 
pocket, and, struggling up from his chair, extended 
his hand to the young man and said to him : “How do 
you do, my son ? I am glad to see you. Wait until I 
lock up the store, and we will go up to supper. Take 
my chair and rest while I am getting ready/'' 

“Thank you, sir,” said John, and, taking the chair 
to the edge of the platform, he sat down. He was 
very tired. He had walked more than twenty miles 
that day over the mountain, and had had nothing to 
eat since he left home. Mr. Murray’s invitation to go 
with him to supper after the store was locked up fell 
upon his ears as most gracious words indeed. “How 
kind he is !” he mused. “I do hope he will employ me. 
I should never grow tired trying to serve a man like 
that.” Yet he dared not indulge the hope too san- 
guinely. It were far better not to expect anything 
than to have one’s heart set upon a definite attainment, 
and then be disappointed. “I wonder what he thinks 
of me,” he was saying to himself, when Mr. Murray 
came out of the store and said: “I am ready now, 
John. Did I keep you waiting very long?” 

“O no, sir. I was very tired, and I enjoyed the rest 
here in your chair.” 

Then they started up the hill together toward the 
merchant’s house. 

“Did you walk all the way from home?” said Mr. 
Murray. 

“Yes, sir ; I walked all the way,” replied John. 

“What time did you start this morning?” 

“It was about eight o’clock, I think, sir ; but I was 


IO 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


so much upset by the thought of leaving home that I 
really did not take much note of the time.” 

“Is this the first time you have ever been away from 
home ?” 

“Yes, sir; it is the first time I ever went out with 
the intention of being away from home more than one 
night at a time.” 

And thus by easy and natural questions the man led 
the boy into talking about himself and his journey 
with as little embarrassment as if they had been boon 
companions all their lives. Mr. Murray, having cast 
off his melancholy spirit, was really as much inter- 
ested in what the boy had to say as if it were the most 
important thing that could be said by his most inti- 
mate and time-honored friend. When they came to 
the house he introduced John to his wife, and enter- 
tained him as though he were some distinguished 
guest. Mrs. Murray, noticing that the boy seemed a 
little embarrassed* in her presence, and having all her 
married life devoted herself untiringly to entertaining 
her husband’s friends, at once set about doing every- 
thing she could to make things pleasant for the 
stranger. But he could not help feeling self-con- 
scious. He looked at his dust-begrimed hands and 
clothes, and the color mounted to his dusty cheeks. 

Mr. Murray, noticing this, called out : “Gus, come 
here. Take this gentleman out on the back porch and 
dust his clothes and give him some soap and water to 
wash his face and hands.” 

“Yes, sah,” said the negro, and, beckoning^ to John, 
he said : “Come dis heah way, sah. I brush you off.” 

When they returned John looked a great deal 
cleaner, but he did not entirely lose his embarrassment 


ROXBURY. 


II 


until after he sat down to the table and began to eat. 
He was so ravenously hungry, and everything seemed 
so good, that he soon forgot himself and fell to eating 
with as much freedom as if he were in his mother’s 
dining room. 

Mr. Murray thoroughly enjoyed the supper, too ; it 
did him good to see John eating so heartily. He kept 
encouraging him to take some of this and some of 
that, until the boy’s appetite was entirely satisfied. 

After supper Mr. and Mrs. Murray and John sat 
down in the sitting room, and Mr. Murray asked John 
all sort of questions about himself and the family at 
home ; about the number of children, and all of their 
names ; about the health of his father and mother, and 
whether they were beginning to look old; about 
the work on his father’s farm, what they planted, 
and how many acres, what they sowed and what 
kind of a harvest it yielded; about the lead mine 
craze, of which he had heard from somebody (John 
wondered who could have told him about it) ; about 
the public school in his neighborhood, and how 
long he had gone to school, and whether he ex- 
pected to go to school any more ; about the Sun- 
day school and the preaching in the neighborhood; 
about the religious revival which he had heard was 
held near his father’s house. And although there 
were so many questions, they were interspersed with 
so many comments on John’s answers, and occasion- 
ally interrupted by Mrs. Murray’s merry laughter and 
pointed, earnest questions, that brought out John’s 
keenness of discernment and gave spice and variety to 
the conversation, that John did not feel that he was 
being especially chatechised, though he did wonder 


12 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


where and how Mr. Murray could have learned so 
much about his home affairs. 

At nine o’clock the colored boy came in to show the 
“gemman” upstairs. Mr. and Mrs. Murray arose 
and said good night to John. He acknowledged the 
courtesy and retired with the boy. The boy carried 
a lamp in his hand to light the way through the halls. 
They turned to the right at the head of the stairs, 
and here the boy opened a door and said : “Dis heah 
yo’ room.” They both went in, and the colored boy 
set the lamp on the table before the open fireplace 
and went downstairs. He ran through the lower 
hall and back to the kitchen, where his mother was 
still busy clearing away the supper dishes. As he 
burst into the kitchen door he had his hand over his 
mouth, and at regular intervals was giggling and 
snorting through his fingers. 

“What de matter wid you, nigger?” said his moth- 
er, glaring at him fiercely out of the corners of her 
eyes. 

“I ain’t neber seen no gemman like dat come to our 
house afo’. When dat Mistah Richardson done come 
heah fum St. Louis he had on fine clothes and a gol’ 
watch and a dimund in his shut and shoes a-shinin’ 
till ye could see yerself in ’em. But ’fo’ de Lawd, 
mammy, dat feller upstairs sho’ nuf des’ look like a 
tramp.” 

She scowled at him, and then poured forth a regular 
torrent of indignation : “Shet yo’ mouf, nigger. Ain’t 
I neber gwine to l’arn you not to talk ’bout comp’ny 
in de house ? Dese heah free niggers ain’t got no man- 
ners, nohow. I reckon de good Lawd knowed what 
he wuz a-doin’ when he done free ’em, but I ain’t neb- 


ROXBURY. 


13 


er yit see no use in freein’ blab mouf niggers like you 
is. Good thing fur you, boy, I ain’t got no oberseer 
heah to-night. I’d make him take you out and give 
you twenty-five lashes fur dat imperdence. Dat I 
would, you black rascal, cornin’ in heah snortin’ and 
carryin’ on like dat ’bout nice gemman massa done tell 
you to carry upsta’rs. Git outen heah now, and go 
to yo’ bed dis minit, ’fo’ I done break dis heah shubble 
han’le ober yo’ head. You heah me, nigger? Git, I 
tell you !” 

The boy understood her perfectly, and lost no time 
in complying with her request. 

In the meantime John was gazing about his room 
abstractedly. The bed, with its white spread and clean 
pillow slips, looked very inviting to a boy excessively 
tired with a day’s labors. But he did not hurry to 
bed. He looked into the mirror on the dresser op- 
posite him, and for the first time became conscious 
of the shabby appearance of his clothes. He blushed 
and took up the hairbrush and brushed his hair, as 
though he thought that might relieve his untidy ap- 
pearance. “How strange it all seems to me !” he said 
to himself. “These people are so very kind to me. 
And Mr. Murray asked me so many questions about 
the folks at home. I wonder if he is trying to find out 
whether I am a proper person to stay all night in his 
house or whether he was as much interested in me 
and our family as he really seemed to be?” 

There was no answer to these questions ; for, 
while Mr. Murray had vigorously plied John with 
questions, he had maintained throughout the con- 
versation a dignified reserve concerning his inten- 


14 A BETRAYED TRUST. 

tions in so doing. Finding that he could not solve 
the problem, John laid the whole matter aside and went 
to bed, and was soon lost in a deep, restful sleep. 

Long after John retired, Mr. Murray in pensive 
mood sat alone before the open fire in his room, now 
and then raking the glowing coals closer together; 
then, sitting with his elbows on his knees, he peered 
into the fire as if he were trying to read its deep hid- 
den secrets. Mrs. Murray had gone to the kitchen 
to give some instructions to the servants concerning 
breakfast, and had found Gus’s mother in a towering 
rage about “dat impudent nigger, Gus, talkin’ ’bout 
de comp’ny in de house,” and she detained her mis- 
tress quite a while with her story and her fearful fore- 
bodings concerning the whole race of free negroes. 

Mr. Murray had not moved from his position before 
the fire for some time. The stillness of death per- 
vaded the room. The fitful glare of the fire light gave 
a ghostly significance to everything around him. 
One who knew him well might have said: “His 
melancholy spell is returning.” But it was not so. 
He was serious, almost to tears, but it was not that 
feeling of indefinable despondency which he had felt 
that afternoon in front of his store. The young fel- 
low upstairs had stirred his sympathies. Nothing 
so touched him as the struggles of an honest young 
man trying to make his way in the world. But this 
young man, in his youth and inexperience, appealed 
to his great heart and enlisted its deep interest as no 
other had ever done. “It is just fifty years, y-e-s, I 
b-e-l-i-e-v-e it i-s j-u-s-t exactly fifty years,” said he 
in an undertone which he did not wish or expect any 
one to hear. 


ROXBURY. 15 

“What is it, my dear?” said his wife, who had re- 
turned from the kitchen just in time to hear her hus- 
band’s strange soliloquy. She pulled her chair up 
close to his and sat down. 

He took her small, wrinkled hand in his and 
tenderly smoothed the wrinkles with his great thumb. 
She laid her left arm across his broad shoulders and 
began in a thoughtless manner to play with the silken 
curls upon the back of his neck. For a few moments 
both were silent. Mr. Murray had always had a sin- 
gular aversion to speaking of his own personal his- 
tory. And, though he had been married nearly forty 
years, he had never spoken to his wife of his childhood 
days or of that period of his youth and young man- 
hood which intervened between his childhood and the 
time she first met him. It was not without effort and 
many secret qualms that he brought himself to the 
point of doing so now. But he knew that she had 
heard the sentence which had unintentionally escaped 
his lips. Silence was therefore more embarrassing 
than a full explanation, and so he answered her: “I 
was just saying, my dear, that it is just fifty years 
since father died.” 

“What made you think of that ?” she asked, not try- 
ing to conceal her surprise. 

“That boy upstairs. He has set a whole train of 
reminiscenses going through my brain at lightning 
speed,” said he. Then he proceeded to tell her the 
story of his early life. At first he began in a low tone 
of voice and proceeded very slowly, fearing that some 
sentence of self-laudation might unconsciously es- 
cape his lips. Then as his heart warmed with the 
theme which had so often glowed therein in his silent 


1 6 A BETRAYED TRUST. 

meditations he forgot himself and told his story with 
the pathos and power that is born of an experience 
that stirs one’s heart to the very depths. The strange 
glare of the weird fire light upon his face, the deep 
emotion of his great soul struggling in vain to find 
full expression in speech, so intensified the interest 
of the story that it held Mrs. Murray as ghost stories 
hold children, thrilling and charming them, though 
exciting them almost to the point of frenzy. 

“We lived near Washington, in Rhea County, Tenn., 
when I was a boy. Father had a large family. There 
were twelve children in all. Brother Dan was the 
eldest, and I was the second child. Father sold out 
everything he had, and at once got ready to move 
out West, where he thought he could buy cheaper 
land and make a better living for his family. Brother 
Dan went to St. Louis expecting to come to us at 
Denison, Tex., having on the way made close ob- 
servation of vacant lands in Missouri. We got on a 
flatboat at Washington and went down the Cumber- 
land River to the Mississippi. There we changed 
boats, taking a steamer to the mouth of the Ar- 
kansas River. Here we changed boats again and 
started up the Arkansas, intending to go as far 
west as that boat could carry us. We had got- 
ten to Morrillton, Ark., when father was suddenly 
stricken down with the cholera, and died within three 
hours from the time he was taken sick. Of course 
there was great excitement on board, and, though 
the captain was a kind-hearted man, he was compelled 
to put us off the boat at Morrillton. Mother and I, 
with the ten younger children, with broken hearts and 
bewildered minds gathered around father’s lifeless 


ROXBURY. 


17 


body beneath the shade of a large oak tree where the 
deck hands had laid him, a full half mile from the 
village. The people of the town, though entire 
strangers, were very kind to us, and two men came 
out and helped me to dig a grave for father ; and we 
buried him beneath the shade of that friendly oak 
upon the banks of the river where he met his death. 

“We had very little money, no home, and the people 
of the village were afraid to take us in. We knew 
not where to go. I was the eldest of the family pres- 
ent, and the whole responsibility of the situation de- 
volved upon me, for mother was literally crushed 
under the heavy and unexpected blow. I rented a lit- 
tle cabin about a mile from town for mother and the 
children to stay in while I went out to see if I could 
find anything to do to earn a little money to keep us 
from starving. That was the saddest parting of my 
life, when I kissed my poor, distressed mother good- 
by and left her weeping by father’s grave, and I 
went out like Abraham of old, not knowing whither I 
went, and fearing even to think of what might happen 
to mother and the children in my absence. 

“The settlements were few and far between in those 
days, and I tramped and tramped day after day, to 
meet with nothing but failure and discouragement 
everywhere. Hope had almost faded out of my 
heart, and as I tramped through seemingly endless 
forests I felt that I was being driven along by the 
desperation of despair to certain ruin, when I unex- 
pectedly came to a large plantation. I walked toward 
the house, and found a tall, well-formed man stand- 
ing at the front gate. He had such a kind face that 
I ventured to tell him my story, with the secret feel- 
2 


i8 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


ing in my heart that if he did not help me I was ut- 
terly undone. I can see him now, standing there with 
his left hand resting upon the gatepost, his right foot 
carelessly thrown across his left leg, his body bend- 
ing forward as if eager to catch every word of my 
story, the great tears rolling down his cheeks as he 
heard of father’s untimely death and our consequent 
destitution; of my mother and her helpless little chil- 
dren waiting for my return to take them to a place 
they might call home, where I could be with them 
and be their protector and provider. 

“He held out his hand and warmly grasped mine and 
said: ‘Come in, my boy. You are tired and hungry. 
We shall first get something to eat, and then we shall 
talk about work/ He gave me the best dinner I ever 
ate in my life — at least I thought so that day. After 
dinner he hired me to split rails for him at fifty cents a 
hundred, and the next day he sent his negroes with 
wagons and teams down to Morrillton and moved 
mother and the children up to his plantation. There 
we stayed for two years, and at the end of that time 
brother Dan came to us and we moved here. The 
name of the gentleman who did so much for me was 
Amos Carey. He was the grandfather of this boy 
upstairs; and now, after fifty years, here comes this 
boy looking for all the world just like I did then, and 
asks me to give him something to do.” 

The story was finished. Mrs. Murray nestled a little 
closer to her husband, his strong frame quivered with 
emotion as he grasped her hand a little tighter, and 
both sat in that silence that knows no language but 
tears. 


ROXBURY. 




“It is a providential opportunity, my dear, to pay 
a debt of long, long standing,” said Mrs. Murray. 
“God has sent us this boy — there is no doubt about it 
— and we must do something for him.” 

“But what can I do for him ?” 

“Why not give him Albert’s place?” 

“Why, that boy could not manage a forty-acre field, 
let alone my plantation. He knows nothing about 
farming, and I am too old to undertake to teach him 
now.” 

“Get Albert to stay six months longer and teach 
him,” said the faithful wife, whose timely suggestions 
had so often helped her husband out of perplexities 
and had contributed so much to his great success in the 
world. To this Mr. Murray at once agreed, for it was 
a solution of the difficulty that had not occurred to 
him at all. As late as it was, Albert was called in, 
and the matter was talked over. At first he declared 
he could not stay. He explained that he had made a 
contract with a man to help him with some stock on 
the way out West, and that the man would be sadly 
disappointed if he did not go. Mr. Murray was not 
willing for anybody to be disappointed for his ac- 
commodation, and wanted to drop the subject at once, 
but Mrs. Murray was not so easily satisfied about it. 
She suggested to Albert that he owed it to Mr. Mur- 
ray to give him six months’ notice of his leaving, and 
that he had failed to do it. Then she told him the 
story which her husband had told her that night, 
and with so much of pathos and tenderness that Al- 
bert was moved to tears. He said: “Well, maybe I 
orter stay.” Mr. Murray then said : “If you think you 
will not be doing wrong, Albert, and if you can make 


20 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


the matter right with this gentleman whom you have 
promised to help, I will give you an extra hundred 
dollars to stay six months and teach this boy how to 
manage the farm.” Albert agreed to stay, and after 
talking with Mr. Murray about the explanation he 
should make to the gentleman, he said good night and 
left the old people alone. 

Mr. and Mrs. Murray retired with light hearts that 
night. All the difficulties and gloomy forebodings 
of the day had vanished. The opportunity for which 
Mr. Murray had often sighed, to show his apprecia- 
tion of the greatest kindness he had received during 
his life, had come. The morning light would show 
how eagerly he would embrace it and how faithfully 
he would fulfill it. 

The old clock on the mantel was sweetly chiming 
out the hour of twelve. The full moon, as if she were 
delighted with conclusions reached, poured her soft, 
mellow light through their east window. The hush 
of midnight lay upon the world, and the angel of grat- 
itude in the hearts of these dear old people sweetly 
sang them to sleep. 


CHAPTER II. 

A Mother's Anxiety. 

The Careys were very poor. Everything about 
their place indicated that. The house, the furniture, 
the fences, the outhouses, the few scrawny pigs and 
calves in the barn lot bore unmistakable evidence of 
that neglect which always accompanies deep poverty. 
The farm consisted of one hundred and twenty acres 
of very poor land in a rough, mountainous district. 
This was divided by numerous ravines, gulches, and 
valleys. Much of the land lay upon the bluffs and On 
the rocky hillsides, so that, all in all, there were not 
more than fifty acres of arable land in the whole tract. 

The house in which the Careys lived sat upon a 
hill in the southeastern corner of their farm. It was 
an ordinary log cabin, containing four rooms, built in 
the form of a T, with a covered porch extending the 
full length of the front rooms. It looked toward the 
south, facing the county road. The barn lot and 
stables and outhouses were on the north, and a hun- 
dered yards to the west were bluffs of shelving lime- 
stone rocks, from beneath which there leaped forth a 
bold, perennial spring of clear, sparkling water. Such 
was the home and some of the surroundings where 
our hero was born and where he spent his entire life 
up to the time he went to live with Mr. Murray. 

Though the Careys were very poor, it was evident 
even to a casual observer that they had seen better 
days. James Carey was the son of Judge Amos Ca- 

( 21 ) 


22 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


rey, long presiding justice of the county court. He 
came to the country at an early day and entered vast 
tracts of land, and in a few years became independ- 
ently rich. He was known far and wide as a man of 
great business tact and ability, and one who, by his 
upright conduct, had gained the confidence and re- 
spect of all who knew him. He had given his chil- 
dren such educational advantages as the country in 
which he lived afforded, but he had signally failed in 
teaching them the manly art of self-reliance. The 
great number of slaves which he owned, and the lux- 
uries with which he surrounded his family, enervated 
them and made them dependent upon others. When 
the civil war came, with all of its devastating hor- 
rors, the great estate of Judge Cary was swept away ; 
and at the close of the war he found himself quite as 
poor as when he first came to the country. His chil- 
dren too shared in the great losses; and, what was 
worse for them, they had none of that business tact 
and thrift which their father possessed to enable them 
to recover their lost fortunes. 

Mrs. Carey was a native of Alabama; and, though 
not an educated woman in the modern acceptation of 
that term, she was by no means to be classed in the 
role of the merely ordinary. She was a woman of 
remarkably good common sense. Her intuitive in- 
sight into the things about her in which she was to 
be depended upon for a judgment was so clear and 
distinct that her husband had learned to trust her im- 
plicity, and unless there was some very strong reason 
for it he never deviated from her advice. It may be 
added as the judgment of the writer that it would 
always have been better for Mr. Carey had his wife 


a mother's anxiety. 


2 3 


exercised a dictatorship over him, for he was not a 
strong character. He was a man of shallow opinions, 
though of honest and sincere * convictions. His wife 
had a strong personality. She had deep convictions 
and clear, penetrating ideas, and seemed at times re- 
ally to look into the future with almost prophetic eyes. 
Upon all questions her judgment was better than his; 
yet she had deferential respect for his opinions, and 
for his position as her husband and the rightful ruler 
of their house. She never quarreled with him about 
anything. She never seemed to be conscious that she 
was his superior, and when differences of opinion arose 
they were frankly discussed ; and if she was overruled, 
she meekly submitted with such good grace that one 
might have thought the result was in perfect harmony 
with her wishes and opinions as first expressed. 

There was a special reason for John Carey's leav- 
ing home at what his parents considered the tender 
age of eighteen years. The father had been enabled, 
by dint of hard labor, together with the aid of his 
faithful wife, whose genius for making things hold 
out had no superior and very few equals, to keep the 
wolf from the door, to clothe the children in passing 
comfort, and in the winter time to send them all to 
school. But an unfortunate circumstance occurred in 
the Carey family that made it impossible for him to 
do this any longer. He had an improvident brother, 
Charles, whose chief distinction was a glib tongue that 
could portray possible success in such glowing terms 
as to compel the most incredulous to believe that it 
was an absolute certainty. Time and again this broth- 
er had borrowed small sums of money from Mr. Carey 
to invest in some chimerical scheme, with the express 


2 4 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


understanding that it was to be repaid within thirty 
days, with interest. He was in each case very san- 
guine of success, and could explain the details by 
which it was all to be accomplished. But invariably 
he was disappointed. The money was never made, 
and of course it was never paid. 

One day Charles came to the Carey homestead, and, 
finding his brother James chopping wood at the great 
wood pile that lay just to the left of the front yard 
gate, perched himself upon the stile block near by 
and began in the following strain: “Jim, you are the 
biggest fool in all this country. You wear your life 
out chopping wood and plowing this miserably poor 
ground, when you could be independently rich if you 
only knew how to do it. If you will listen to me, 
and follow up a little scheme that I will make known 
to you, you need never run another furrow nor stick 
an ax in another piece of timber. I have been think- 
ing about it for a year, but, knowing that you are 
always suspicious of my plans, I have hesitated to 
mention it to you until I got the matter in such defi- 
nite shape that you could not fail to see that I was 
right. And now I hope you will be wise enough to 
act upon my suggestions. I went over the hills be- 
yond the pasture field the other day, just walking 
around for a little recreation ; and what do you think 
I found?” 

Mr. Carey looked up as the question was proposed, 
and Charles held up a large piece of lead that would 
weigh at least a pound and a half. 

“This is what I found, and I tell you, old fellow, 
there is lots of it, just lots of it over there and all 
over this place. I have seen it glistening in the rocks 


a mother’s anxiety. 


2 5 


in the bluff, and it always seems to say to me : ‘Charles, 
why don’t you come and dig me out? I could make 
you independently rich in a very short time.’ I have 
found it in the furrows where I was plowing your 
corn, and it seemed so silly to me to keep on plowing 
corn and making nothing when I might be digging 
lead and getting rich. But you are so slow to take 
hold of a new enterprise, and so afraid you will lose 
something, that I have hesitated until now to speak 
to you about it. If we had only a little money to 
develop a mine, we could easily make a hundred thou- 
sand dollars this season. Come and go with me and 
look at the prospect for yourself.” 

Mr. Carey laid down the ax and went with his 
brother to look at the prospect. He found it as it 
had been represented; the mineral was glistening in 
the rocks. Upon investigation, pieces of tiff and small 
bits of lead could be seen here and there near the spot 
where Charles picked up the piece he first showed his 
brother. There seemed no doubt about it; the min- 
eral was there. But could they find it in paying quan- 
tities? It would require at least five hundred dollars 
to open the first shaft, and neither of the brothers had 
a dollar. 

"I tell you, brother,” said Charles, “borrow the 
money. You can get it from Squire Tate by giving 
him a mortgage on your farm, and we can make 
enough money in three months after the shaft is 
opened to pay off the mortgage and to proceed with 
our business.” 

But Mr. Carey was a cautious man. He was not 
willing to take a step, however plausible it might 
seem, involving such risks without first consulting his 


2 6 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


wife. He said : “Well, I don’t know about this. Let 
us go to the house and see what Mary thinks about it.” 

Accordingly they went back across the fields to the 
humble little house on the hill, where a woman’s judg- 
ment upon a very important matter was to be consulted. 
Would that some superintending providence might have 
led them to abandon the scheme with that consultation ! 
The husband told his wife all that happened, showed 
her the piece of metal which Charles had picked up, 
and described to her the sparkling mineral which he 
had seen glistening in the bluffs beckoning him on to 
unlimited riches. She listened with rapt attention. 
There was a flush of excitement upon her cheek when 
Mr. Carey said: “We shall be obliged to borrow some 
money in order to develop this rich mine, which the 
good Lord seems to have reserved for us until the day 
of our great poverty. I have so long prayed for enough 
money to send John to school. He is a bright boy, and 
would easily make his mark in the world if he only had 
a chance to get an education.” 

“How much money would you have to borrow?” 
asked Mrs. Carey. 

“Five hundred dollars,” answered her husband. 

“Where do you think you could borrow that much 
money?” innocently queried the woman in most re- 
spectful tones, but in a manner that conveyed to the 
listeners the suspicion that she was very skeptical con- 
cerning the whole scheme. 

“Where? From Mr. Tate. He has plenty of mon- 
ey to lend if the security is good.” 

“But what security could we give?” 

“Our farm. Mr. Tate would doubtless be glad to 
take a mortgage on our farm as security for his money, 


a mother’s anxiety. 


2 7 

and we could pay it off with the first output of paying 
mineral.” 

“But suppose you never found enough mineral to 
pay it, what would you do then ?” 

Mr. Carey did not reply to this sensible question. 
He moved his feet uneasily on the floor, and looked 
out across his growing wheat in the field and heaved 
an anxious sigh. 

“Sister,” said Charles, “we have already found the 
mineral. All we need is the money to enable us to dig 
it out of the ground, and when that is done we can 
easily pay off the mortgage. You have nothing to 
fear. It looks to me like a dead sure thing.” 

“Do you want my opinion, Mr. Carey?” said she to 
her husband, disdaining to notice Charles’s suggestion. 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I think it is too great a risk to mortgage 
our little home, all we have in the world, for such a 
visionary scheme. You might die before the mine 
was developed, or the mine might disappoint all your 
hopes and never develop at all. You know Mr. Tate. 
He would not only sell us out of house and home, but 
he would not hesitate to take the last thing in the 
world that we possess to get his money back. I think 
the better plan is for you and Charles and the boys 
to go to work and see what you can do in the way of 
developing the mine before you think of borrowing 
the money.” 

Mr. Carey had so long been accustomed to depend 
upon his wife’s good judgment in business matters 
that without another word he meekly acquiesced in 
her opinions, and the borrowing of the money was 
for the time being dropped. 


28 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


Charles was sorely disappointed, and went out mut- 
tering to himself something about a man who had no 
judgment of his own, and always had to go to his 
wife to find out whether he could or could not do as 
he wished. And he ended by saying : “I thank heaven 
I have no wife to lead me around by the nose.” 

The next day Mr. Carey, Charles, and the boys, 
with axes, picks, crowbars, and shovels, went out to 
see what they could do in the way of developing the 
mine. They worked hard all day, but made little 
progress. The stubborn rocks seemed to hold their 
places defiantly, demanding giant powder to remove 
them before they v/ould loose their hold upon the 
solid bluff. The next day they drilled a hole and put 
in the first blast. As soon as the smoke cleared away 
they rushed up to the opening and found bits of lead 
and zinc scattered everywhere around them. They 
were much encouraged. Charles was wild with de- 
light. Every day added to the excitement, until the 
neighbors all caught the contagion and everybody be- 
gan to dig. The work was prosecuted most vigor- 
ously, and quite a quantity of lead was found. They 
began to talk about a smelter, a railroad, a town, and 
all sorts of schemes and plans were revolved every 
night in the Carey house. Gradually Mrs. Carey was 
won over to the side of the miners. Her own heart 
began to beat with hopes of better days. She longed 
to see the day when they could send their older chil- 
dren to school, and not feel that they were robbing 
the younger ones of food in order to give their elders 
the benefits of an education. 

The time came when the money must be borrowed 
or the work must stop. James and Charles went over 


a mother’s anxiety. 


2 9 


to consult Mr. Tate. Mr. Tate was a tall, smooth- 
shaven, thin-visaged man, with a sharp, thin, aquiline 
nose and small black eyes set far back in his head; 
a high, receding forehead and a sharp-pointed, pro- 
truding chin, and a mouth with firmly set, thin lips. 
Each feature of his face was as eloquent of rascality 
as an ape’s of idiocy. He was a man of remarkable 
self-possession. He never lost his temper; he never 
lost his head. When in a controversy with a neigh- 
bor (the normal state of his life) a sarcastic smile 
played over his thin lips that was more exasperating 
than bitter curses, and when he gained a point in the 
argument that diabolical smile broke away into a de- 
fiant chuckle of fiendish delight. He was a man with- 
out education, without culture or refinement. His 
chief distinction was that he always had money to 
lend; and, although it was well known that he was 
as shrewd in making a bargain and as merciless in 
enforcing it as Shylock, still the poor simple folk 
flocked to him in their distresses, and mortgaged their 
farms and borrowed his money to temporarily relieve 
their distresses, and in the end turned over all their 
possessions into his avaricious hands. More than half 
of his neighbors had had sad experiences of this sort 
with Mr. Tate. It is needless to say that he was 
heartily despised by the people. Charles Carey, in 
speaking to his brother of borrowing the money from 
Mr. Tate, called him “Squire,” not that he had ever 
been elected to an office, for the people would far rather 
have seen him burned at the stake than to have cast 
one single ballot for him for any office. But when one 
wished to flatter his vanity and to approach him on 
the most favorable terms he called him “Squire,” but 


30 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


ordinarily everybody called him “old Tate.” His farm 
of five hundred and twenty acres adjoined the Carey 
homestead on two sides, and for many years he had 
secretly coveted Mr. Carey’s place. It would com- 
plete the square of six hundred and forty acres for 
him. He wanted the spring for water for his stock, 
the broken acres of the farm for pasture for his cat- 
tle, and the site of the old dwelling for a place upon 
which he might build his new house. But he never 
offered to buy it. He would rather abide his time, 
and take it in for less money under a mortgage. He 
was therefore perfectly delighted when Mr. Carey ap- 
proached him with a proposition to borrow five hun- 
dred dollars and to give a mortgage on his farm as 
security for the money. But he carefully concealed 
his feelings, and pretended at first that he did not 
have the money to lend; and then that he doubted 
the validity of the security offered; and finally, after 
much parleying, he said: “Mr. Carey, you are goin’ 
to use this here money for a mighty doubtful specu- 
lation; and in view of the fact that I doubt whuther 
your place is wuth the five hunderd, if I let you have 
the money, I’ll be obleeged to charge you a leetle more 
than the legal rate of int’rust.” 

“How much will you charge me?” asked Mr. Carey. 

“Wall, I cain’t afford to make a loan like that fur 
less than one per cent per month. That’s purty high, 
and I advise you not to take it ; but if you want it at 
that rate, you can have it.” 

The two brothers consulted together for a moment, 
and then replied that they would take it. A cast-iron 
mortgage was drawn up, and, under the direction of 


a mother’s anxiety. 


3 1 

a notary public, Mr. and Mrs. Carey, with trembling 
hands and doubtful hearts, signed it. 

But, strange to say, all the glowing prospects of 
the mine vanished from that hour. The money was 
spent to the best advantage possible, but the miners 
did not find a “shine” after that day. Some believed 
that old Tate had bewitched the mine, and by some 
occult power had sent the mineral beyond the reach 
of the Careys. Others believed that the mine had 
been salted by some agent of his, and these openly 
declared that it was another one of his devilish tricks 
to rob a good man of his house and home. But no 
one was ever able to solve the mystery, and after a 
while the people ceased to talk about it and the matter 
was forgotten. 

Charles Carey, discouraged by the unhappy turn of 
affairs, left the country ; and his brother, overwhelmed 
with the difficulties that had so suddenly fallen upon 
him, gave up in despair, and sat around in a medita- 
tive mood and with a dejected air that threatened mel- 
ancholia. 

There is a slight difference between a man thor- 
oughly discouraged and one temporarily insane. In 
fact, it is an open question whether a man perfectly 
sane can ever be entirely overcome by disappointment 
and losses. Hope and reason assert themselves in a 
healthy mind, and, though there may be mists and 
clouds of darkness all around, these twin companions 
always struggle through the gloom and lead their hero 
to the light beyond. 

It was to be expected of Mr. Carey, whose lack of 
self-assertion was so painfully manifest in all his trans- 
actions, that he would succumb to the discouraging in- 


3 2 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


fluences of financial loss and overhanging debt. He 
had none of that inestimable force which the world 
calls rallying power. He was one of those men who 
had to be carried, helped, coached, and bolstered up, 
or he could never do anything. 

But it was not to be expected that Mrs. Carey would 
show the sad effects of a bitter disappointment in her 
life. It was therefore a matter of real concern to 
her friends when they saw her face assume an anx- 
ious, careworn expression. She had lost that cheer- 
ful smile which for many years had been an inspira- 
tion to so many of her neighbors in times of perplex- 
ity and trouble. She went about her home with the 
same kind, thoughtful attention which she had always 
shown to each one in her house; but she seemed to 
be in a dreamy state of mind, and was heard to sing 
softly as she was engaged in her regular duties: “I 
would not live always.” 

John, ever quick to read the lights and shadows 
upon his mother’s face, a face dearer to him than all 
the world beside, saw the troubled, worried look deep- 
en from day to day. Every morning it seemed to 
him that the lines had grown deeper and the dear 
face had grown paler with the passing night. “What 
if mother should” — He never finished the ques- 
tion. The very thought made him dizzy, and he 
found himself clutching in the air for a support. He 
longed to comfort her. He resolved again and again 
that he would have a private talk with her, and tell 
her of some plans which he had matured, which he 
believed would relieve the tension and be of great 
comfort to her. 

One evening he was sitting upon the shelving rocks 


A MOTHER S ANXIETY. 


33 


just above the spring, thinking of the problem that 
had become his constant companion by day and the 
subject of his dreams by night, when he heard a 
rustling among the leaves on the ground back of him. 
Just north of the spring were six tall, straight walnut 
trees that stood out there in the darkness like living 
sentinels to guard the ground that was sacred. Back 
of these trees a massive bluff of gray limestone threw 
its somber shade out to the roots of these trees in the 
daytime, but in the early evening it fell far beyond 
the place where John was sitting. Between the bluff 
and the tall trees John could see a figure moving slow- 
ly, like some phantom spirit in the darkness. At that 
moment the full moon crept out from behind the east- 
ern hills and sent a gleam of silver light into the dark 
recess where the figure was moving. By that light 
he easily discerned the beloved form and anxious face 
of his dear mother. She knelt down to pray. Her 
lips moved in silent petitions that winged their flight 
to the throne of the living God. John crept up from 
his place on the rocks and steathily came up by her 
side, and, quietly dropping upon his knees, said : 
“Mother, may I pray with you?” 

She was startled by the sudden and unexpected in- 
trusion, but as soon as she saw that it was John she 
said : “Yes, my son ; we need to pray much these days.” 

At the conclusion of the prayer John said: “Don't 
cry, dear mother. It will be all right by and by. Old 
Tate shall never have our place. I shall take care of 
you and the place too. I shall go out at once and see 
if I cannot hire myself to somebody and earn enough 
money to redeem our farm from the mortgage; and I 
shall yet show old Tate that he cannot rob us, as he 
3 


34 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


has done other families in this neighborhood. I know 
that I can earn enough money to pay the interest as 
it falls due, and that will prevent the old scoundrel 
from foreclosing the mortgage.” 

But just there came an unexpected interruption. 
Mr. Tate, knowing that the first installment of inter- 
est was due the following day, and thinking that the 
Careys would not be able to pay it, had come over to 
look at the spring and to make some calculations about 
a place to build when the farm fell into his posses- 
sion. He walked up to where John and his mother 
were talking, not thinking of finding any one there, 
and just in time to hear every word of John’s defiant 
speech. All three recognized the embarrassing situ- 
ation, and John and his mother arose and ran as quick- 
ly as they could to the house. 

“Ha, ha, ha,” said Mr. Tate, “the young Carey is 
trying to comfort his mother before the day of her 
real sorrow comes. They must be lookin’ fur it. Quite 
a promise that that he glibly rolls off to her. But he 
shall see whether I have this place or not. 'Rob them,’ 
indeed! They have gotten my money and spent it 
in a reckless speculation, and now he calls me a rob- 
ber because I want my own. The day will come when 
I shall make that young rascal rue his words ; mark 
me, I shall make him sincerely repent it. Old Tate 
never furgits, never furgives.” 

It was not that John called him a robber that 
so irritated Mr. Tate. It was the firm, manly prom- 
ise which John made to his mother that caused him 
to fear that a boy of such pluck might put his reso- 
lution into execution, and after all he might lose the 


a mother’s anxiety. 


35 

place. Henceforth he must busy himself to put that 
boy out of the way. 

The next day Mr. Tate called on Mr. Carey to in- 
form him that the first six months’ interest on his 
note was due and must be paid at once. 

“Well, I have one horse left out there in the lot. 
Will that pay the interest?” 

“I should say not, neighbor. That old hoss is 
twelve or fifteen year old, and is not wuth more’n 
ten or fifteen dollars. The intrust is one per cent 
per month, and it amounts to thirty dollars. I should 
say any fair-minded man would say that it will take 
that hoss and that there cow both to be wuth thirty 
dollars.” 

“Why, Mr. Tate, that horse is only eight years old, 
and is worth fifty dollars ; and that cow is worth thir- 
ty-five dollars if she is worth a cent. Besides, I can’t 
do without the cow. My little children would starve 
if they could not have mush and milk for their sup- 
per.” 

Then Mr. Tate smiled ironically, and asked Mr. Ca- 
rey when it came about that he was responsible for 
what the Carey children had to eat. He said he must 
feed his own children ; and if other people got in debt 
so they could not pay and take care of their families, 
they could go to the poorhouse or starve, just as suited 
them best. 

Mr. Carey was thoroughly aroused from his stupor, 
and, raising his cane in a threatening manner, he said : 
“Leave this place instantly, sir, or I’ll break your head 
with this cane. You shall not take my horse and my 
cow both for the paltry sum of thirty dollars. It is 
worse than highway robbery, sir.” 


3 6 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


Then Mr. Tate chuckled in his defiant manner, and 
said: “All right, Mr. Carey. I shall go to town to- 
morrow and foreclose the mortgage, and have you 
arrested for threatening my life, and when you have 
laid in jail six months you will wish that you had 
paid your honest debts when you could.” 

This thoroughly frightened Mr. Carey. His mel- 
ancholy spirit returned, and, succumbing to what 
seemed to him the inevitable, he said: “Well, maybe 
I was too hasty. Take them both along if nothing 
else will do you. I suppose we can live some way.” 

As Mr. Tate rode the horse and drove the cow be- 
fore him he chuckled under his breath, saying to him- 
self: “The o I’ man hain’t got no grit at all. None 
of ’em has. I wonder whar Mister John is now, with 
his proud boast that ‘ol’ Tate’ shall not rob the Ca- 
reys as he has robbed other folks in this country? 
Ah, but I’ll git even with ’em; I’ll make that young 
upstart eat his words, you see if I don’t.” 

That night there was a pathetic scene in the little 
dining room of the Carey house. The children came 
to the table, and were told that this was their last 
opportunity to have mush and milk for supper; that 
Mr. Tate had taken away their cow because father 
owed him and could not pay him; that hereafter they 
could have mush, but no milk. Each one of the little 
ones began vociferously to denounce old Tate; but 
the mother rebuked them and bade them be quiet, 
and told them that she would not allow them to speak 
so disrespectfully of their neighbors. 

That night John and his father and mother had a 
long conversation. They each realized that the time 
for decided action had come. The only thing that 


a mother's anxiety. 


37 


seemed possible was for John to go to Mr. Murray’s 
and see if he would employ him, and possibly by the 
next pay day he could earn enough money to pay the 
interest and prevent Mr. Tate from foreclosing the 
mortgage. The note to Mr. Murray, which John car- 
ried in his pocket, was thought out that night; and 
the next morning it was penned and given to John, 
who departed from his father’s house with many tears 
and with real heartache, but with high hopes of find- 
ing a place somewhere in which he could earn the 
money by which he was to redeem the sacred promise 
which he had made to his dear mother. One thing 
inspired him. His mother, instead of weeping over 
his departure, concealed her grief and really smiled 
again, saying to him : “Be brave, my son ; I believe in 
you. For the first time in six months I see a rift in 
the clouds. You will bring us out of this trouble all 
right by and by. Go, my brave boy, and God bless 
you.” That smile cheered him all the way over the long, 
dusty hills, and brought him to Mr. Murray’s store 
with a determined courage that could have brooked 
any difficulty. Perhaps it was the manly confidence 
and self-respect that had inspired his grandfather in 
the days of his youth reappearing for the first time 
in his grandson, but John believed that the heroic 
spirit of his mother had taken charge of him that day, 
and henceforth he would be afraid of nothing but sin. 
As he lay down upon his bed to sleep that night the 
last thing he thought of was : “Mother smiled to-day, 
the first time she has smiled for six months.” That 
smile, like a guardian angel, seemed to hover over him, 
and in its security he found blessed rest and sleep. 


CHAPTER III. 

Learning the Business. 

The next morning John was awakened from his 
deep sleep by the trumpet call of a conch shell. All 
her married life Mrs. Murray had been accustomed 
to rise at four o’clock in the summer time and at five 
during the winter, and arouse the sleepers in her 
house, the negroes in their quarters, and the villagers 
in their homes in the valley with the clarion notes 
of a conch shell. She could wake the echoes in the 
distant hills from three to five miles around Roxbury 
with this simple instrument. Every one knew the 
joyful sound, and all the villagers, as well as the 
visitors in her house, obediently heeded its call. 

John was startled by the strange sound, and sprang 
out of bed not knowing whether to flee downstairs 
and dress afterwards, or to take the precaution to 
clothe himself properly before he left his room; but, 
not hearing any further disturbance, and seeing that 
everything about the house was quiet, he determined 
to dress himself and to investigate the cause of the 
alarm later. He went down to the sitting room, where 
Mr. Murray greeted him cordially and asked him to 
take a seat. He was nervous and fidgety. He was 
impatient to know Mr. Murray’s decision about giv- 
ing him employment. His heart was alternately full 
of hope and anxiety. He could not lay aside the all- 
important question even for one moment of time. 
Mr. Murray chatted away pleasantly, not once re- 


LEARNING THE BUSINESS. 


39 


ferring to the matter of supreme interest to John. 
Presently Albert came in, and was introduced to John 
as Mr. Whitley. They shook hands in an awkward 
manner and stared each at the other suspiciously, but 
neither of them said a word. In a few minutes break- 
fast was announced, and all went out to sit down to 
a real refreshing meal. After breakfast the family 
was called into the sitting room for prayers. After 
prayers all retired save Mr. Murray, Albert, and 
John. 

When the three were alone, Mr. Murray said: 
“John, X have decided to employ you to work on my 
farm if we can agree upon the terms. I want a man 
to take Albert’s place as superintendent of the plan- 
tation. Albert has been with me several years, and 
has been a splendid hand ; but he thinks he must go 
West, and I must have some one to help me run 
the place. Albert has agreed to stay six months and 
teach you how to do the work, and I will pay you 
twenty-five dollars per month for your work from 
the first. I prefer to have the contract indefinite, so 
far as time is concerned. We will say that the con- 
tract shall continue as long as we suit each other. 
What do you say as to the terms ? 

“I shall be very glad to accept, and I hope I shall 
be able to serve you as acceptably as Albert has 
done. ,, 

That settled the whole matter, and Mr. Murray said 
to Albert: “Take him in hand, then, and see what you 
can make out of him.” 

This was said with a merry twinkle of the eye, as 
though he intended to rally John to the highest en- 
deavor by being suspicious of his powers to do any- 


4 o 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


thing. The business having been settled, the mer- 
chant went to his store and the two young men went 
out to their work. 

As John stepped off the front porch he leaped into 
the air with such a buoyancy as a prisoner experiences 
when he is released from prison, or as when a soul 
in long suspense finds that the worst he feared has all 
passed. In all the world there was not a happier boy 
than John. “Twenty-five dollars a month! Won’t 
that make mother glad?” he said to himself as he 
skipped over the ground like a little child. In his 
heart he wished he could run over home and tell her 
all about it. He felt like he could run all the way and 
get back in time to do a half-day’s work afterwards. 
But he contented himself by saying : “I shall write to 
her to-night and tell her all about it.” 

The plantation originally contained fifteen hundred 
acres — twelve hundred acres in cultivation, and three 
hundred acres of timbered land, which was called the 
woods pasture; but Mr. Murray had sold portions of 
it from time to time, until now there remained only 
five hundred acres of the tillable land and one hun- 
dred acres of the pasture. Of the five hundred acres 
of tillable land, Albert had been accustomed to have 
one hundred acres in corn, one hundred and twenty 
in wheat, forty in oats, eighty in meadow, and one 
hundred and sixty in pasture. The first work to be 
undertaken was to show John the plantation, and to 
explain to him how the work was to be carried on. 
So he and Albert mounted two good horses and rode 
over to the plantation, some two and a half miles 
from where Mr. Murray lived. They rode around it, 
then through it, then by cross sections they rode up 


LEARNING THE BUSINESS. 4 1 

and down and all over the farm that day. Albert 
explained in detail to John just when he should begin 
his work. The next six weeks was to be devoted to 
gathering the corn. When that was finished they 
must inspect the fences and put them in proper repair. 

The first of February they must begin plowing for 
their corn crop. The first of April they must begin 
planting the corn, and by all means they must be done 
by the twentieth of the month. Then there would 
be ten days which they would devote to breaking the 
young mules and driving the cattle off to market. 
Then the plowing season would begin in real earnest, 
and continue without interruption until the last week 
in May, when the harvest season would come on. 
After the wheat and the oats had been harvested they 
would resume the plowing of the corn, and continue 
until the fourth of July, when the corn must be laid by. 
After that work was finished would come the hay 
harvest. And after that the fence corners had to 
be cleaned of weeds and briers around the entire farm ; 
then the wheat land must be broken up and the wheat 
sowed; and after that the corn must be gathered — 
and so on year after year. There was no time for 
leisure in Albert’s plans. He explained to John that 
he must change the clover ground into the corn 
ground every three years and the corn ground into 
clover in order to keep the soil fresh and productive. 
In the afternoon he took John out to the pasture to 
see the cattle and to explain to him how to feed and 
care for them. And then they went on to where the 
young mules kicked and frolicked with such glee that 
John wished that the breaking season of which Al- 
bert had spoken was already here. 


42 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


It was late in the evening when their work of in- 
spection was finished and they returned to the house, 
John full of hope and ambition, Albert doubtful in his 
own mind whether the “strip of a lad would be able 
to do the great task which had been assigned him. ,, 
After supper John hurried off to his room to write 
to his mother. He wrote : 

O mother, I have such good news to write you, and I am 
so excited over it that I can hardly steady my hand enough 
to pen you a few lines. Mr. Murray has hired me to work on 
his farm, and has promised me twenty-five dollars a month. 
Isn’t that glorious? Didn’t I tell you I would be able to 
take care of you all right? Won’t it make old Tate wince 
when he sees me walk up with my hard-earned money and 
pay his interest and stop his foreclosing the mortgage? I 
can hardly wait for the time to come. 

Mr. Murray’s farm is very large, and he has hired his man 
Albert, who has been with him several years, to stay here six 
months and teach me how to do the work. Mr. Murray has 
a negro boy, Gus, who is to work with me. We shall have 
lots to do. There is no place to play or to go fishing in the 
whole year. This morning Mrs. Murray blew a conch shell 
to wake up the people in the house, and it liked to have scared 
me to death. O, so many things have happened in the last 
few days that I do not know where to begin or what to tell 
you. It seems to me that I have been away from home a 
solid month, and I am so anxious to see you all that I hardly 
know what to do, or how I can stand it a month longer. But 
I am tired to-night, and we are going to gather corn to-mor- 
row, and I reckon I’d better bring this letter to a close. Give 
my love to all the family, and take a big strong hug for your 
own dear self. How I wish I could see you to-night and tell 
you all that has happened and describe to you all my sur- 
roundings ! Good-by. Your own dear boy, John. 

It was a merry trio that started out the next morn- 
ing to gather the corn. The sun was just peeping 
over the eastern hills, and the frost on the fences and 


LEARNING THE BUSINESS. 


43 


leaves of the trees was glistening with royal splen- 
dor under his glancing rays. Already the forests 
were beginning to take on those variegated colors 
which nature’s skillful artist, using only sunshine and 
frost, is enabled to paint on every leaf and flower. 
The air was crisp, and the rich, young blood of the 
workers raced through their veins and gave added 
life and vigor to all their work. Let us take a glance 
at them separately. 

Albert is an Irishman about thirty years old, whose 
brawny limbs and well-knit frame suggest the greatest 
possible endurance. He looks like he might be a 
prize fighter if he wished or a section hand on the 
railroad, but he is neither ; he is a kind-hearted, peace- 
able gentleman, who loves to work on the farm. 
He has the quick wit and the inexhaustible repartee 
for which his race has become famous. There is 
nothing mean in his make-up. He is a jolly, good- 
hearted, fun-loving fellow, who does not hesitate to 
carry a practical joke to the danger point; but he 
would not maliciously hurt anybody for the world. 
He is kind and considerate in general of those serv- 
ing under him. He has one glaring weakness : a dis- 
position to magnify his own importance, no matter 
at what cost it may be to others. And every time he 
talks with Mr. Murray about the work on the planta- 
tion and the new hand he reminds him that, while the 
boy does very well, of course he cannot do the work 
as well as he has done it for the last five years. 

Gus is a genuine, full-blooded negro. He was born 
in the year i860, the last slave born on the old planta- 
tion, and was his mother’s youngest child. He is as 
black as tar, and his white teeth glisten in their ebony 


44 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


setting like pearls of great price. His big eyes roll in 
their sockets and give emphasis to every variety of 
thought or sentiment that enters his head. He is 
an athlete in form, and as quick-motioned as a cat. 
He is an inch taller than John, but they tip the beam 
of the great scales in exactly the same notch. When 
the war commenced in earnest Gus was a little more 
than a year old. At the beginning of hostilities Mr. 
Murray took all of his negroes to Texas. Then came 
the long, tedious days of waiting and watching for 
the end of the war. In those trying times Gus was 
the only individual who could drive away Mr. Mur- 
ray’s melancholy. He was as playful as a pup, and 
used to roll on the ground and laugh and talk in a 
manner that greatly amused his master. He soon 
became Mr. Murray’s constant companion. Often 
he would take Gus upon his back and carry him all 
the way to the creek, two miles from his house, where 
he would spend the day in fishing, and the child would 
frolic and play and ask questions. When he got 
sleepy and tired his master made a pallet for him out 
of his coat, and would lay him down tenderly in the 
shade of a tree, and there he would sleep, flies and 
mosquitoes to the contrary notwithstanding. In the 
evening the master picked up the slave again and 
carried him upon his back all the way home. Mr. 
Murray was very fond of him, and he was so devoted 
to Mr. Murray that when the negroes were freed he 
said: “You alls can go whar’ you please; I not gwine 
to leab ol’ massa.” And, be it said to the credit of 
both the boy and his master, this solemn resolution 
was sacredly kept until the angel of death came and 
called Gus to his last reward. Mr. Murray buried him 


LEARNING THE BUSINESS. 


45 


with all the tenderness and concern that he could have 
shown to his own son, and mourned for him many 
days with sincere grief. But we have digressed too 
far already ; let us go back to the work in the field. 

At six o’clock they hitched the two largest mules 
to the great farm wagon, and were soon hurrying over 
the hill to the corn fields. John and Albert took the 
two rows on either side of the wagon, and Gus kept 
up the “down row.” They talked and sang and 
worked with such a zest as John had never witnessed 
before. He had gathered corn on his father’s place, 
but there they took it leisurely. They never thought 
of rushing like mad. But Albert did not know how 
to take things leisurely. He was always in a hurry, 
and it rushed the two boys all day long up to the full 
limit of their strength to keep up with him in his 
work. They did not complain, and when night came 
each of the trio boasted that he was just as fresh and 
vigorous as he was when he started out. We need 
not stop to inquire how much of truth there was 
in this vain boasting. The second day’s work dif- 
fered in no material respect from that of the first. 
So the third and the fourth and the fifth, and so on 
to the end of the week. On Saturday evening Albert 
and Gus put their heads together to have a little fun 
at John’s expense. When they had the last load of 
corn in the wagon for that day, Albert was to stop the 
wagon at a certain point near the woods pasture gate 
and ask John to get over the fence and walk down to 
a gate just beyond a straw stack in full view and open 
it that the cattle might come up to the spring for 
water. John did not know that there was a vicious 
bull in that pasture — he was at that time standing 


4 6 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


behind the straw stack, and could not see the boys 
nor could they see him — but Albert and Gus knew 
he was in there. John sprang out of the wagon as 
soon as the request was made, leaped over the fence, 
and, thrusting his hands deep down into his pockets, 
hurried off toward the gate. The bull did not see 
him as soon as Albert and Gus had hoped he would, 
and John was getting so far away from the fence that 
both the boys in the wagon became alarmed about his 
safety. Albert sprang to his feet and yelled at the top 
of his voice. John stopped and looked toward the 
wagon. The bull had heard the yell too, and came 
rushing around the straw stack to investigate the 
cause. When he saw John he put his nose to the 
ground, curled his tail over his back, and, giving 
one unearthly bellow that made the very forest trem- 
ble, he started at him with the fury and rapidity of a 
cyclone. John cast one terrified glance over his 
shoulder at the oncoming fury, and betook himself 
to flight. It was a race for life. But do his very best, 
the bull was rapidly gaining on him at every step. 
Albert and Gus were so excited that they jumped off 
the wagon and ran to the fence and cried out at the 
top of their voices, in the hope of attracting the 
attention of the bull for a moment, but all was in vain. 
He saw his prey before him. He rushed more madly 
than ever to secure it. John’s eyes were fairly start- 
ing from their sockets in his fright and his great en- 
deavor to outrun the bull. He would surely have 
been caught and gored to death but for a very unex- 
pected circumstance. As he was running with all his 
might he threw his head back and his straw hat fell 
to the ground. The bull came to it and proceeded 


LEARNING THE BUSINESS. 


47 


to run his horn through it, and then he tried to bore 
it into the ground. In the meantime John was run- 
ning for the fence with all his might. Albert and 
Gus, thinking that he was now safe, that the bull 
would not leave the hat until he had entirely destroyed 
it, set up another great shout. This arrested the 
angry bull’s attention again, and, seeing his fleeing 
victim doing his very utmost to reach a place of safety, 
he started for him again with renewed energy. He 
was proudly wearing John’s straw hat on his left horn 
as he made the furious charge. Rapidly he gained 
on the boy. Now John could hear his labored breath- 
ing close behind him. Albert and Gus stood upon 
the fence paralyzed with fear. One moment more 
must decide his fate. He was near the fence, but the 
bull was in ten feet of him. If he should fall on reach- 
ing the fence, no earthly power could save him from 
a terrible death. At last his fingers clutched the top 
rail, and with supernatural strength and agility he 
sprang from the ground and landed on the other side. 
He fell flat on his back, and lay there breathlessly wait- 
ing further developments. The bull struck the fence 
with such terrific force that he loosened the stakes 
for three panels, and shook the fence for fifty feet 
in each direction as though an earthquake was pass- 
ing. The shock was so sudden and so severe that Gus 
was knocked from his perch on top of the fence, and 
fell on the inside just twelve feet from the bull. The 
infuriated animal was knocked down by the stunning 
blow which he dealt to the fence; but when he saw 
Gus falling on his side of the fence he gave one great 
bellow and sprang to his feet and made for the terrified 
negro with most vicious intent. As quick as a cat Gus 


4 8 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


sprang for the fence, but not quick enough to escape 
the unerring horn of the ferocious bull. He caught 
his right horn in Gus’s coat pocket and ripped out a 
section of that garment from the edge of the skirt to 
the armpit. This was done so quickly that Gus was 
thrown against the top rail of the fence with such 
violence as to cause the blood to spurt from his nose, 
but fortunately allowing his body to fall on the out- 
side of the fence. The mules, frightened by the noise 
and the mad rush of the bull, ran away with the wag- 
on, spilling the corn all along the road,, and at last, 
upsetting the wagon and snapping the tongue short 
off, they turned aside and suddenly stopped to see 
what they were running from. 

Albert was very sorry that his practical joke had 
turned out so disastrously. But to his great surprise 
he found that John was not mad, and that he showed 
no disposition even to complain of his treatment, but 
regarded the whole affair as a good joke, which he 
seemed to enjoy after his scare was over as heartily 
as any of them. 

An hour afterwards the wagon was turned right 
side up, the corn reloaded, a tongue improvised for 
the wagon, and the three boys sat down to discuss 
what had happened. Gus could hardly talk for laugh- 
ing. Between his explosive fits of laughter he tried 
to describe how John looked at the most interesting 
stage of the race. 

“Ehum, mun, I done tol’ you dat white boy was 
running don’t ye furgit it, I tell you he wuz a-movin’ 
them pegs of his’n. Every ha’r on his head wuz 
a-standin’ straight up, and his eyes wuz a-standin’ 
outen his head like two great balls of far on to a clab- 


LEARNING THE BUSINESS. 49 

bo’d. Talk ’bout sutting dut, e-h-u-m, I ain’t neber 
seed no white man yit what could cut dut like dat. 
He fairly flew, he did. He wuz erbleeged fur to fly, 
I tell ye, fur dat bull was right arter him sho nuff. 
And dat bull he wuz sho nuff de maddest critter I 
ever see, cause dat white boy done outrunned him. 
He wuz so mad he don’t take no time fur to cuss; 
he dess run at de fence and try fur to tear down all 
de fence on de plantation. Jee whiz, I thought de end 
of de world- done come when he struck dat fence. I 
felt kinder dizzy-like and de next thing I know I hear 
dat bull yell out at me, and dar I wuz on his side de 
fence. Great Scott, I wuz skeered to death. But I 
wuz pow’ful glad to fin’ out he don’t want nuthin’ 
’cept a piece of my ol’ coat to wear on his tuther ho’n 
des’ to keep comp’ny wid Mr. John’s hat.” 

Then he would put his hands on his sides and laugh 
until he had to lean against the fence to keep from 
falling. Then, beginning at the same point, he would 
go over the whole story again, and each time it was 
repeated the funnier it seemed. 

Albert and John joined heartily in the laugh each 
time, and encouraged Gus to tell it again that they 
might have the privilege of enjoying to the full the 
negro’s unbounded delight. 

Albert said : “Gus stood up there on the fence yell- 
ing to John, ‘Run, John, run; I tell you dat bull goin’ 
to git you ef you don’t run,’ just as though he ex- 
pected John to throw off on a race like that. I tell 
you thar’ want any time for jockeying on that race 
track. And Mr. John showed hisself to be a sprinter 
worthy of the stakes he won. But ah me, did you 
hear that nigger yell when he fell on the inside of the 
4 


5 ° 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


fence? I bet they heard that yell in Roxbury. If 
it hadn't been fur that yell, the bull would have had a 
dead nigger on his horn ’stead of a flap of an ol’ coat. 
But Gus yelled so loud he kinder stunned him. 
Wuzn’t Gus a specimen when he got up on the safe 
side of the fence ? Blood all over that face, which, if 
it hadn’t been for the blood, was the exact color of an 
ash heap. And that coat ! look at it ! I think it will 
do to wear to a nigger dance in Sleepy Holler to- 
night, where the lights are turned down low and a 
man’s a man for a’ that.” 

Then they all laughed loud and long until the mules 
pricked up their ears as though they feared the ex- 
citement was about to begin again. The bull had by 
this time quieted down somewhat ; but when he heard 
that loud guffaw he lifted up his head with the strange 
decorations of John’s old hat and a piece of Gus’s old 
coat still on his horns, and took a deep, restful in- 
spiration that swelled his sides out to their utmost 
capacity, his eyes glowed like balls of fire for a mo- 
ment, his nostrils dilated and contracted with intense 
anger, and then with a motion of supreme contempt 
for the base cowards he turned and walked away. 

That night Mr. Murray heard the story first from 
Albert, and then he sent for Gus, and had him to tell 
how John looked as he was running from the bull. 
Mr. Murray laughed until the tears rolled down his 
great cheeks. He thought it was rather a serious 
joke, but he believed that the jokers were sorely 
whipped out in their own undertaking. The punish- 
ment was self-inflicted; that was sufficient, they did 
not need a moralist to warn them against a repetition 
of it in the near future. The next day the bull was 


LEARNING THE BUSINESS. 5 1 

sold to a man who knew how to handle him, and the 
woods pasture was freed from its terror. 

The incident would have been a mere trifle in the life 
of a brave boy, but for the fact that it served to turn 
Gus’s feelings of contempt for the new hand, “who 
looked des’ like a tramp/’ into the warmest admiration 
and deepest friendship, which continued with increas- 
ing intensity unto the day of his death, a friendship 
that in a few months was to reveal its heroic devo- 
tion at a time when all the world seemed against the 
unfortunate young man. 

The corn - gathering proceeded on Monday as 
though nothing had happened on Saturday. When- 
ever opportunity presented, the whole story of John’s 
escapade with the bull was repeated, and each time 
it was told some new feature was brought out. It 
served to make the days seem shorter. It furnished 
material for conversation, and in a strange and inde- 
finable manner it bound the three boys together in 
closer ties of friendship from day to day. 

And now the work of gathering the corn was well- 
nigh completed. John had not told anybody about 
his experience with the bull. He had not written to 
his mother about it, though never before had he with- 
held from her any secret or experience of his life. 
He did not write to her about this, because he did 
not wish to give her needless anxiety about his safety, 
and above all to create an erroneous opinion in her 
mind concerning his friends Albert and Gus. 

When they had finished the corn-gathering, they 
began to reset and repair the fence around the planta- 
tion. This required some six weeks, but when it was 
finished Albert declared he had never seen the fence 


5 2 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


in such splendid condition. Then came the plowing 
for the corn crop. It was a very interesting process 
to John. On his father’s farm they had never used 
anything in breaking up their fallow ground except a 
bull-tongue plow; but here the three boys with three 
sixteen-inch plows were turning over the rich, mellow 
soil at such a rapid rate and with so much ease that 
plowing was a positive delight to him. 

In all the pursuits of life no avocation affords a boy 
such splendid opportunity for the cultivation of vir- 
tuous habits and for meditation upon sublime and 
ennobling subjects as plowing. With little personal 
responsibility in his work, with no worrying, vexing 
cares in his environment, with the pure air stimulating 
his thoughts and giving to lungs and heart new life 
every moment, with a heart contented and happy in 
its sphere, he has everything at his command that 
conduces to the purest life known among men. 

John was too bright a boy not to perceive the 
blessed influence of his surroundings. As he followed 
the plow round after round he thought of the good- 
ness of that God who had led him so mysteriously 
into such delightful occupation with such favorable 
environments. He secretly resolved to serve Him 
faithfully all the days of his life. He believed that 
God would take care of him from henceforth, and he 
began to dream of the days when he might be the 
owner of the plantation, and his father and mother 
and the whole family should be made happy by the 
generous bounty which his liberal hands would sup- 
ply for them. He planned for enlarged things for 
all of his friends in his dreams of success, and was so 
happy in the indulgence of his own thoughts and day- 


LEARNING THE BUSINESS. 


53 


dreams that he forgot all about time, until he was 
suddenly aroused from his reverie by Gus’s clear 
voice ringing out: “Hy, dar’, Marse John! you gwine 
to plow all night? We done tuck out.” When he 
looked around the sun was setting in the western sky, 
and Albert and Gus were already astride their horses 
starting for home. 

Thus the days went pleasantly by. After so long a 
time the pleasant task of breaking the ground was 
finished. Then it was harrowed and planted in good 
time. The last days of Albert’s instruction were at 
hand. His generous heart was more and more in- 
terested in the boy’s future management of the farm, 
as he recognized more and more his excellent traits 
of character and thought of the great possibilities 
before him. He went over in detail his instructions 
to him about the general management of the farm in 
real paternal spirit. He warned him not to neglect 
anything which he had taught him during the last 
six months. He insisted that every detail was nec- 
essary to the successful management of the planta- 
tion. He begged him to be faithful and true in his 
work, and not do anything that might worry Uncle 
Ewing, and thus shorten the days of that good man. 
He told him that during the years he had worked for 
Mr. Murray he had not had a single unkind word 
from the man whom he had learned to love like a 
father. His impulsive nature manifested itself in 
his words and the tears which filled his eyes as he said : 
"I tell you, John Carey, here is a great trust com- 
mitted to your hands, and you are only a boy and 
liable to forget, and you need to be careful. I am not 
goin’ to say anything about it now, it ain’t none of my 


54 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


business ; but a greater trust than any you have heard 
about is going to be put into your hands when I go 
away and you take charge of things here. I hope and 
pray that you will be man enough to receive it and to 
meet it as you ought/’ 

John listened in blank astonishment to this speech, 
wondering what new trust could be given him when 
he was formally installed as manager of Mr. Murray’s 
plantation. 

The time of Albert’s departure was now at hand. 
He had filled his contract with Mr. Murray to the very 
best of his ability, and nobody could have done it bet- 
ter than he. He was sorry that he had decided to go. 
His Irish indecision, always easily swayed by his 
emotions, was put under a peculiar strain when he 
thought of leaving the place that had become so dear 
through these years of pleasant associations. But 
his arrangements for going were all made, and there 
was nothing left for him to do but to say good-by 
and go. He took leave of each one with many tears 
and with strong promises to return at the end of the 
year and see how they were prospering. He said to 
Mr. Murray secretly : “If John does not do the work 
to suit you, send for me and I will come back at any 
time.” Mr. Murray thanked him, but said he thought 
that John and Gus could manage the farm satisfac- 
torily. He thanked Albert warmly for his faithful 
service, and wished for him great success in his new 
field of labor. He added two or three extra bills to 
the amount he had agreed to pay him, and begged 
him to keep his promise to return on a visit at the 
end of the year. The last good-by having been said, 
Albert departed for his home in the West. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The Subtle Charm. 

The training school on the plantation was a great 
blessing to John in many ways. It revealed the great 
possibilities of life to him as he had never seen them 
before. It broadened and deepened his conceptions 
of individual responsibilities. It gave him an entire- 
ly new meaning of the term manhood. Hitherto he 
had thought of it as the period where one throws off 
restraint and feels the exultant joy of perfect liberty. 
Now he saw that manhood meant more restraint of a 
different kind, it was true, but not less hard to bear 
than that which he had known as a thoughtless boy, 
“from care and sorrow free.” Manhood’s real, ear- 
nest struggle began to dawn upon his vision with sol- 
emn force. In addition, the training school greatly 
improved his general stock of information; for, with 
Albert’s lessons upon sections, half sections, quarter 
sections, bushels, pounds, tons, bins, granaries, hay 
room, and what not, necessary to the working out of 
the problems that arose every day in the management 
of the farm, John reviewed his arithmetic and took 
in many lessons he had never thought of or heard of 
before. 

In other respects the training term had been a real 
heyday in his life. Every week he got a long, loving 
letter from his mother, full of tender solicitude for his 
welfare and wholesome advice for his conduct. She 
had sent his trunk and Sunday clothes during the 

( 55 ) 


5 6 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


first week he was in Roxbury. The first Sunday he 
was there he joined the young men’s Bible class in 
the Sunday school of which his employer was the 
teacher. He was exceedingly happy in the advan- 
tages derived from privileges which he had so long 
coveted. He liked the quiet religious life of his new 
home, and he thoroughly enjoyed the village Sunday 
school and the preaching, which were so much better 
than he was accustomed to in his rural home. He 
had found in Mr. Murray a warm, sympathetic, con- 
fidential friend. He had not expected this. He. did 
not know that a bond of real sympathy between the 
employer and his employees ever existed. His Uncle 
Charles had told him that it never did. He had read 
in the Miner’s Review , a paper which his Uncle Charles 
used to take, of the cruel oppression of the rich and 
the absolute disregard they had for the toiling masses. 
And he never ceased to wonder why it was that Mr. 
Murray took such a deep interest in him and in all 
that he did. Strange to say, Mr. Murray was some- 
what exercised about another feature of this same 
problem. He often wondered if John’s parents had 
ever told him the story of his going to John’s grand- 
father’s and begging for work, and that as a stran- 
ger he had taken him in ; but all the shrewd inge- 
nuity of his long experience never once drew from 
John the information which he desired. He hoped 
sincerely that John had never heard it. He wanted 
the privilege of showing his gratitude without the re- 
straint of appearing to be paying a debt. He wanted 
the boy to feel that his interest in him was of a pure- 
ly personal character. He thought that John would 
develop more of manly independence if he never knew 


THE SUBTLE CHARM. 57 

that in a certain sense Mr. Murray felt under obliga- 
tions to do something for him. 

John, in blissful ignorance of these queries, was 
giving himself, heart and soul, to the honest discharge 
of every duty. He was very thoughtful of Mrs. Mur- 
ray when he was about the house, never allowing her 
to do a thing or call a servant to help in any matter 
in which he could be of service to her. His devotion 
to his mother had made him quick to discern what was 
needed, and he felt a kind of relief from homesickness 
every time Mrs. Murray allowed him to help her in 
anything about the house. The old people were drawn 
to him closer and closer every day. Mrs. Murray 
never failed to tell her husband about his excellent 
qualities, and to assure him that in John he had dis- 
covered a treasure more valuable than the gold in the 
mines of California. 

In summing up the results of John’s training school 
days under Albert’s instruction, the writer would be 
very remiss in duty should he pass over in silence the 
events of an Easter Sunday, for that day marked the 
beginnings of certain influences that were to play an 
important part in the boy’s future history. This 
morning dawned bright and fair. The stars were 
still shining when the conch shell awoke John from 
his slumbers. He arose and walked to the window 
and looked out toward the south. Streaks of gray 
light were beginning to pencil the eastern sky. Upon 
the hillsides in the dim distance the white dog- 
wood blossoms trembled in the gentle breezes and 
gave the impression of weird, ghostly figures pre- 
paring to flee away before the light of the oncoming 
day. Far beyond them, as the light increased, could 


5 * 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


be seen the blue outline of the Boston Mountains, 
piled peak upon peak against the vaulted sky. The 
village below him was quiet and still, save here and 
there a human figure walking upon the front porch 
to breathe the fragrant morning air, or some busy 
housewife protruding her head from the window, en- 
deavoring to fasten the wooden shutters back for the 
day. Presently the birds began to sing, and filled the 
little world around them with delightful notes of liquid 
music. From the back yard of every house in the 
village burst forth the clarion call of the cocks, each 
defiantly striving to outdo his neighbor in the shrill- 
ness of his morning cry. The gentle zephyrs floated 
softly from the south, and kissed John’s cheeks ten- 
derly as though they bore a message of love from his 
dear mother. He inhaled the fresh morning air deep 
in his lungs, swelling his chest to its utmost capacity. 
“It is a fine morning,” said he, “a prophecy of some 
good the Master means to send upon me this day. 
Perhaps father and mother will come over to the 
Easter service. Ah, that would be a real blessing. 
All I lack of being in Paradise to-day is mother. If 
she were here, my cup of happiness would be full. 
If I had a telescope that could look through those 
rugged mountains yonder, I know I should see her 
looking this way. She said that she would think of 
me every morning, and would ask God’s blessing 
upon me for that day. O best of mothers, I can feel 
the soft touch of your gentle hand upon my brow, 
and the blessing which you asked is now graciously 
bestowed.” He brushed away the tears of joy from 
his cheeks, dressed himself, and went downstairs. As 
he opened the sitting room door Albert greeted him 


THE SUBTLE CHARM. 


59 


with “Good mornin’, Maister Carey. Mr. Murray, I 
want to introduce to ye my friend, Maister Carey, the 
champion sprinter of Roxbury. Five months ago he 
won the celebrated race against Maj. Bull, of woods 
pasture fame.” 

Mr. Murray laughed, and said: “Good morning, 
Mr. Carey. I am real glad to see you this morning. 
Have a seat and tell us about the celebrated race.” 

“Thank you, sir; I believe I have nothing further 
to say on that subject,” said John. 

“I believe he is as anxious to l’ave the subject this 
mornin’ as he was to l’ave Maj. Bull five months ago,” 
said Albert, “though I think he tr’ated the Major very 
generously ; for the last time I saw him he was wearin’ 
that ancient heirloom of the Carey family, the famous 
straw hat that had survived the ravages and horrors 
of the American Revolution as proudly as if it had 
been a stovepipe of the latest fashion.” 

Albert laughed heartily at his joke, but John col- 
ored perceptibly under it, and the subject was im- 
mediately dropped. Mrs. Murray announced that 
breakfast was ready, and the party walked out and 
sat down to discuss a more refreshing and agreeable 
subject. 

The Sunday school met at nine o’clock in the morn- 
ing. Mr. Murray had a class of seventeen young 
men. Among them was a young man, James Coch- 
ran, who had been John’s lifelong friend. They had 
gone to the same public school, and had been desk- 
mates and classmates for the greater part of their 
school life. James had come to Roxbury three years 
before this, and was quite well acquainted and very 
highly esteemed in the village. John counted it one 


6o 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


of his special blessings to find him here and to be 
associated with him in Mr. Murray’s class. 

The lesson was the twenty-eighth chapter of Mat- 
thew, and a most searching and systematic study of 
the doctrine of the resurrection was brought out of 
the lesson. Mr. Murray taught his class by bringing 
to light first what they knew about the subject, and 
then, by dissertation and lucid explanations of the 
points which they did not understand, he made plain 
to their comprehension the inner meaning of the word. 
He was not a college graduate ; but he had a splendid 
memory, which had been well trained in the reading 
of good books, and there was never a time when he 
could not call to mind at a moment’s warning any 
important truth which he had read that bore upon 
the subject under discussion. He was a great reader 
of history, and he used his knowledge of secular his- 
tory to help explain the many difficult passages of 
Holy Writ. His majestic figure, his great fund of 
useful information, and his intense earnestness in- 
spired the boys with love for their teacher and for 
the subject which he taught. 

The preaching service was held at eleven o’clock. 
Rev. Dr. Long, an elegant Southern gentleman of 
the old school, was the pastor. He was a preacher 
of rare ability, and on Easter Sundays especially he 
was at his best. He loved to dwell upon the proofs 
of the resurrection of Christ from the dead, and to 
portray to the minds of his hearers the startling and 
overwhelming scenes of the last day, when the Judge 
of the earth shall come forth in righteousness and 
call forth the sleeping dead from their graves to the 
great judgment bar of God; where every wrong thing 


THE SUBTLE CHARM. 


6 1 


shall be righted, and every base and mean thing shall 
be brought to light and justly condemned, and all the 
secrets of men’s hearts shall be made known to 
the assembled multitudes before the throne; where 
loved ones long separated shall be united, and the 
good shall enter through the gates into the beautiful 
city on high, and “the wicked be turned into hell with 
all the nations that forget God.” 

John was wonderfully impressed with the sermon, 
and made numerous notes of its finest passages, and 
thought of them often in after years as the most elo- 
quent words he had ever heard. 

He was as much interested in the choir and the 
music that day as he was in the preaching. In fact, 
though he would have been ashamed to have acknowl- 
edged it, he was more interested in the choir than in 
anything he had ever seen or heard in his life. This 
interest is partly explained by the fact that he was 
not accustomed to seeing choirs in church, but chiefly 
because the personnel of some of the singers was very 
attractive to him. One of them charmed him with 
her beauty as well as with her singing ; another thrilled 
him with that indefinable delight which one experi- 
ences in discovering an unexpected talent in a well- 
known friend ; and a third attracted him by the depth 
of his rich, full bass voice, by the awkwardness of his 
movements, and by the conscious dignity that pos- 
sessed him in consequence of being general manager 
of the choir. 

The first of these was a young woman apparently 
about seventeen or eighteen years of age. She was 
a semiblonde, with oval face and a complexion of 
rare clearness, with just enough of the glow of rustic 


62 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


health in each cheek to heighten the fairness. Her 
eyes were of that azure blue whose liquid depths 
seem to mirror forth a soul accustomed to feed on 
purest, holiest thoughts. In form and feature she 
was as perfect as a Grecian model. She looked be- 
witchingly beautiful that Easter morning in her dress 
of soft gray silk and drooping leghorn hat, each ele- 
gant in its simplicity, and both suggestive of that in- 
nate modesty which gives to woman the character 
angelic. Her voice was naturally full, round, and 
sweet, and it had evidently had considerable culture. 
Its first silvery notes caught the attention and charmed 
the heart of the entire audience. John was spell- 
bound. He leaned forward in his seat, gazing into 
her face with expressions of wonder and delight in 
his eyes, and in his heart wishing that she might sing 
all day long. 

The second of the trio which interested John was 
James Cochran, his boyhood friend. He was a slen- 
der young fellow, of lithe and willowy form, with 
blonde complexion and large blue eyes, a very pleas- 
ing and attractive face, and a voice as soft and flexible 
as a flute. John was as much surprised at seeing him 
in the choir as he was delighted with his singing. 
He did not know that James sang at all. When and 
where and how did he learn it? and how came he in 
the choir? were questions that kept flitting through 
his mind as he sat there drinking in the melody of 
that rich tenor voice. 

The third person of interest to John in that choir 
was Mr. Zeb Curtis, the chorister. He was a very 
tall man, with skeletonlike frame, a sallow complex- 
ion, and reddish-brown whiskers over the lower part 


THE SUBTLE CHARM. 


63 


of his face. His voice was a deep bass, and its mel- 
lifluous tones filled the whole church. When he arose 
and strode across the choir platform it was easy to 
be seen that he enjoyed the special distinction which 
his position gave him. Toward the choir in general 
he assumed the air of a dictator; but toward Miss 
Mary Thornton, the soprano whom we have just de- 
scribed, and James Cochran, the tenor, his bearing 
was always of that deferential character that signaled 
them out as his special favorites. He had arranged 
for them to sing all the solos in the anthems, and 
Miss Thornton sang the offertory, and no one seemed 
more delighted with their performances than Mr. 
Curtis. 

The programme that day was according to our sim- 
ple Methodist ritual : 

1. Anthem: “He Is Risen Indeed.” 

2. Hymn, the whole congregation joining lustily in the 
words “Christ is risen from the dead.” 

3. Prayer. 

4. Scripture lessons. 

5. Another anthem by the choir. 

6. Offertory, by Miss Thornton. 

She sang: 

“Ashamed of Jesus, that dear friend, 

On whom my hopes of heaven depend? 

No, when I blush be this my shame : 

That I no more revere his name.” 

The melody of the song and the beauty of the 
singer remained with John like a holy benediction for 
many days. He found himself humming the tune as 
he went about his work, or whistling it as he walked 
the yard in the morning before breakfast, with his 
hands deep down in his pockets and himself lost to 


6 4 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


everything else in the world except to the thoughts 
that were sacredly his own. 

At the dinner table that day in Mr. Murray’s house 
he heard the sermon and the singing pleasantly dis- 
cussed. All agreed that Dr. Long had excelled him- 
self that day. He had so often preached on the sub- 
ject of the resurrection that no one expected him to 
be able to say anything new; but to-day he really 
seemed inspired for the occasion, and when he was 
taken violently sick, and died within a little more 
than a fortnight afterwards, the impression was uni- 
versal that his Easter sermon was born of a special 
baptism of the Holy Spirit preparatory to his trans- 
lation. 

Concerning the singing, Mrs. Murray remarked: 
“Didn’t Mary Thornton sing beautifully to-day? 
How pretty she looked in her new silk dress! I 
think that she is the loveliest girl I ever saw. That 
Mr. Cochran sang well too, John. I suppose you felt 
quite proud of your old friend.” 

“Yes, I was proud of him, but I do not know when- 
ever I was so much surprised. I did not know that 
James sang at all. Where did he learn, and how 
came he in the choir?” 

“Do you not know how he came to be in the choir.” 

“No, I do not.” 

“It is a matter of merit, and you must hear it. 
Mr. Zeb Curtis, the chorister, heard Mr. Cochran 
singing in the Sunday school, and was so charmed 
with the exquisite qualities of his musical voice that 
he went to him and proposed to give him music les- 
sons free of charge. Mr. Cochran accepted, and has 
been taking vocal lessons from Mr. Curtis for nearly 


THE SUBTLE CHARM. 


6 5 


two years. Mr. Curtis is not a professional music 
teacher; but he knows something about it, and seems 
to have succeeded remarkably well with Mr. Cochran. 
Miss Mary Thornton is also a musical protegee of Mr. 
Curtis’s. He is very fond of them both, and has shown 
his preference for them so decidedly as to cause some 
little trouble in our choir.” 

Mrs. Murray’s explanations answered several ques- 
tions which had worried John through the day, as 
well as to reveal a situation that was to worry him a 
great deal more in the future. 

John’s father and mother did not come to the Easter 
service; but somehow he felt at the close of the day 
that he had the blessing which he thought the morn- 
ing prophesied, though it was different from what he 
had hoped, and as he lay down upon his bed that 
night he said: “This has been the best day of my 
life.” Before he went to bed he looked out of his 
south window again. The stars were shining bright- 
ly above him, and the village lay in slumber at his 
feet. The peach trees in the yard had that day burst 
into full bloom, and they sent their fragrant perfume 
upon the breezes to his window. He looked into 
the starry depths beyond him, and wondered if there 
were people in all the shining worlds of the sky, 
and if they would come in the day of the resurrec- 
tion to share the joys of the blessed or to suffer the 
condemnation of the damned. He wondered where he 
would appear then, and how he would be able to face 
the great Judge of the heavens and the earth, when 
the hills and the mountains flee away from before 
his face, and the kings of the earth in terror cry out 
for these same hills and mountains to fall upon them 
5 


66 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


to hide them from the face of the Lord and his Anoint- 
ed. “It is a solemn thought,” said he. “I have tried 
to live right, but I instinctively draw back from a 
thought of the great judgment and of death. But 
Dr. Long did not seem to mind it at all. He talked 
about it as though it was to be the great holiday of 
his earthly life. I wish I could feel so.” 

He sat there in the starlight by his open window 
until late in the night. He reviewed in detail the 
strange experiences through which he had passed 
during the last six months. He thought of old Tate 
and the mortgage, and felt a strange dread creep over 
him at the thought of the possibility of old Tate’s yet 
defeating his plans and getting his father’s farm. He 
thought of his mother as he had seen her kneeling in 
her agony that night beneath the old walnut trees, 
and he renewed his vow to pay off that mortgage, and 
again he asked God to help him. He thought of his 
home-leaving, and how it grieved him to say good- 
by. He lived it all over again, his heart swelling 
with emotion as he looked into her brave face, so full 
of confidence in him. He walked again the long jour- 
ney over the mountains, and recalled the picturesque 
scenery that charmed his sad heart by the way; and, 
dust-begrimed and weary, found himself trembling in 
Mr. Murray’s presence humbly begging for work. He 
went over the incidents of his reception into Mr. Mur- 
ray’s home and his employment there, and felt pro- 
foundly grateful for the mercy that had so far guided 
his frail bark aright; and with this thought in his 
mind he knelt by his bedside and dedicated his life 
anew to the Master’s service. 


CHAPTER V. 

The Mystery Explained. 

Time and again John thought over Albert’s words : 
“I tell you, John Carey, here is a great trust com- 
mitted to your hands, and you are only a boy and liable 
to forget, and you need to be careful. I am not goin’ 
to say anything about it now, it ain’t none of my 
business ; but a greater trust than any you have heard 
about is goin’ to be put into your hands when I go 
away and you take charge of things here.” They had 
made such an impression upon his mind that he re- 
membered distinctly every word, and often wondered 
what Albert could have meant. 

After Albert’s departure he did not have long to 
wait for an explanation. The next morning Mr. 
Murray asked him to come into the sitting room for 
a little private conversation about business matters. 
He asked him to take a seat, and then sitting down 
by his side, he said: “J°lm, there was one thing I 
forgot to speak about the morning we made our con- 
tract. And before you begin your work to-day I 
think we had better talk it over. In addition to your 
work on the farm I want you to sleep in the store 
at night. There will be nothing for you to do in the 
store except to stay there and see that nothing goes 
wrong during the night. Are you willing to do it ?” 

John’s first impulse was to ask to be excused. The 
store was a full quarter of a mile from the house, 
and he was afraid to sleep there all alone. But he 

(67) 


68 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


could not bear the idea of revealing his cowardice 
to Mr. Murray. He believed that gentleman thought 
him too much of a man for such childish fears. So, 
swallowing down the great lump that had arisen in 
his throat, he said : “Yes, Uncle Ewing; I will do any- 
thing you want me to do.” 

He had often wondered why Albert slept in the 
store, but had never asked any questions about it. 
But now the mystery was greater than ever, because 
it was to be his business. All day long, as he worked 
at his regular task, he kept asking himself the ques- 
tion, “Why does he wish me to sleep in the store?” 
Gus noticed that his mind was evidently occupied with 
some serious problem, and said : “What you study’n’ 
’bout, Marse John? I ain’t neber seed ye so quiet 
sence the day that ye done outrunned de bull. Is 
ye griev’n’ cause Marse Albert done lef’ you?” 

“No, I was not thinking of him at all when you 
spoke, and I am not grieving about anything, I was 
just thinking about the responsibility I have assumed 
in taking charge of this place, and that is enough to 
make a fellow feel a little solemn.” 

“O, ye needn’t be wurryin’ ’bout dat. If Marse 
Ewin’ don’t say nuffin’, you needn’t do no kickin’. 
Sides we ain’t got no bull now, and ye ain’t afeer’d 
o’ nuthin in the world but bulls,” said Gus, and then he 
laughed until the distant hills echoed his merriment 
to the forest trees beyond. 

After supper that evening Mr. Murray said : “John, 
if you are ready to go, I will walk down to the store 
with you.” On the way there they talked of the work 
of the day, and John did his very best to conceal the 
real agitation of his mind from his employer. They 


THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED. 69 

entered the store through the back door. Mr. Mur- 
ray made a light, and then stepped back and turned 
the huge key that fitted in a great lock on the door. 
Speaking in a very low tone of voice, he said, “John, 
there is your bed,” pointing to a bed that sat in the 
southeast corner of the room; “and up there over 
your head is a double-barreled shotgun, and under 
your pillow here is a heavy Colt’s navy pistol. It 
may be necessary for you to use these some time; 
and if it is, be careful. Don’t shoot until you see it 
is absolutely necessary to protect yourself and the 
store ; then shoot to kill. It is impossible for any one 
to get in by the front door ; and if you are disturbed 
by robbers at all, they will have to come to this back 
door near your bed, and that will wake you. When 
you hear a noise first demand: “Who is there?” If 
there is no answer, get yourself ready. Do not make 
a light; that would expose you to the robbers, and 
make your capture or your death certain. Buckle 
on your pistol, and get your gun ready just so” (tak- 
ing up the gun and the pistol and showing him how 
to do it). John felt his blood run cold at the very 
thought, but he said nothing. 

“John,” said Mr. Murray, “can you keep a secret?” 

“Yes, sir; I can,” said the boy. 

“Swear to me, then, that you will never reveal to 
anybody what I am now about to tell you.” 

“I swear,” said John with deep solemnity. 

Mr. Murray drew nearer to him and spoke almost 
in a whisper : “In that safe under the counter yonder 
is a large sum of money and of United States bonds. 
Back of the safe is an ax. In case the store takes 
fire in the night get out the ax, burst off this sec- 


70 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


tion of the counter (going up to it), and roll the safe 
into the street. Let the house burn. But in case of 
robbery the robbers will take charge of the safe and 
blow it open and rifle its contents. To prevent their 
getting all of my money, I have taken out five thou- 
sand dollars, which is hidden here in this calico.” 
Going with him to the place, he took down a roll of 
brown paper, and, unrolling it, showed him the money. 
“In case of fire,” he continued, “don’t forget this 
money. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, sir; I understand,” stammered the boy, fright- 
ened almost beyond his wits with the deep sense of 
his responsibility. 

“Well then, good night,” said Mr. Murray, and, 
turning to the back door, he walked out, leaving the 
boy all alone. 

John followed him to the door, said “Good night” 
in as cheerful a tone as he could command, closed the 
heavy door, turned the great key in the lock, walked 
to a chair sitting by a small table a few feet from the 
door, and sat down. He did not know what to do 
next. The silence of his surroundings was awful. 
A mouse running across the floor made him start up 
and put out his hands hysterically toward his gun. 
But when he saw the cause of the alarm he said 
contemptuously : “As cowardly as a woman. You are 
a great defense, John Carey, for a store having a safe 
full of money and valuables, and five thousand dollars 
besides up there in the calico.” Just then he thought 
he heard footsteps outside. He listened ; he heard 
them. They were coming to the back door of the 
store. His heart fluttered in his throat. Presently 
there was a gentle rap on the door. 


THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED. 


7 1 


“Come in,” said John. 

“Open the door, and I will.” 

“Who is there?” 

“It is I, Mr. Murray. I came back to tell you some- 
thing that I forgot to speak of while I was here.” 

John opened the door, and Mr. Murray laughed 
heartily to see him standing there holding the shot- 
gun in his hands and great beads of perspiration 
standing on his forehead. Presently he overcame 
his feelings, and, getting perfect control of himself, 
said : “John, I want to exact one more promise of you. 
I want you to promise me that you will never leave 
the store at night without first giving me notice, 
and that you will not allow anybody to stay all night 
in the store with you. If it becomes necessary for you 
to go away at any time, let me know it, and I will come 
and sleep here myself. Will you promise me all 
that?” 

“Yes, sir; I promise, and I will fulfill. You can de- 
pend upon me.” 

“Very well ; I thought I could trust you,” said Mr. 
Murray, “but it is well for us to thoroughly under- 
stand each other.” Then, turning around to go, he 
said : “I hope you won’t be much afraid down here. 
There is not much danger. We never have had a rob- 
bery in this town.” So saying, he stepped out into 
the darkness, and was soon lost to view. As he 
walked away John pushed the great door to, turned 
the key in the lock, and walked back to his chair and 
dropped down in it in a very helpless sort of fashion. 
He felt tired and lonely. He put his hands over his 
face, and, bending forward, rested his head upon the 
table. “I wish I had never come to this place,” he 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


said. “I wonder why Albert didn’t stay here? All 
this money here ! A fellow is liable to get into trou- 
ble. I don’t expect to steal any of it, but I don’t like 
the responsibility of taking care of it. Who can tell 
what might happen here?” Then he arose, and, 
thrusting his hands into his pockets, began to walk 
around the room, taking a hasty inventory of his new 
quarters. 

The house was a very plain one story, frame build- 
ing, painted white. It had a high, square front, which 
bore neither letter nor sign to indicate the kind of 
business within or who was the owner or proprietor. 
There was a double door six feet wide, seven feet 
high, with a twelve-inch transom over it in the front 
end of the building ; and a single door made of double 
layers of inch lumber closely nailed together in the 
rear. Two large windows, eight feet wide and seven 
feet high, stood on the right and left of the front door. 
Two huge, solid wooden shutters closed the windows 
at night, and both the windows and the front door 
were made secure by an inside fastening to a strong 
piece of walnut timber. The foundation upon which 
the building stood was three feet above the level of 
the street in front of the store ; but at the rear it was 
almost upon a level with the ground. A platform, 
the full width of the building, and with steps at each 
end, enabled the comers and goers to ascend and to 
descend to the street in front. It also served for a 
stile block for ladies on horseback, and in the even- 
ing was Mr. Murray’s favorite resort, because he was 
there protected from the heat of the sun, and was 
enabled to enjoy the outdoor atmosphere. It was 
here that John first saw him. On the right side, as 


THE mystery EXPLAINED. 


73 


one entered the store from the front, was a counter 
running the full length of the room, with the excep- 
tion of a narrow passageway at each end of it. The 
merchant’s desk sat on the end of the counter near 
the front window, and a high stool enabled him to sit 
there and post his books when he had nothing else 
to do. The safe of which we have spoken was im- 
mediately under this desk. 

The goods in the shelves were arranged in sections. 
In the first section back of the desk were the buttons, 
threads, laces, combs, etc., in small paper boxes. In 
the second section were the domestics, linens, towel- 
ing, and so on. In the third section, calicoes ; in the 
fourth, dress goods ; in the fifth, hosiery ; in the sixth, 
ladies’ shoes ; in the seventh, groceries. On the other 
side of the room was a counter running only halfway 
back, and behind it there were three sections : 
First, queensware; second, hardware, consisting of 
locks, bolts, hinges, latches, nails, screws, and other 
things in that line; third, boots and shoes. Farther 
back on this side of the room was the stove, and be- 
yond it the bed in the corner. 

Having made a hasty survey of the apartments that 
were to form his bedroom for a while, at least, John 
determined to retire for the night, though he was not 
sleepy. The blood was coursing through his veins 
at a very rapid rate, and every nerve in his body was 
at a high tension. But he went to bed hoping to quiet 
his nerves and to find that panacea for all troubles of 
youthful minds, the unconscious state of blissful sleep. 
As he lay upon his pillow he could not help thinking : 
“If I had that money rolled up there in that brown 
paper, I would go home and make old Tate sick by 


74 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


paying off that mortgage, and I would make mother 
happy in a hundred different ways. I would buy her 
some new clothes, I would send the children to school, 
I would go to school myself, and I would fix up the 
old place so nobody would recognize it.” 

But be it said to his credit, he never once had the 
consent of his mind to steal the money, or any part of 
it. That he may have been tempted in that direction, 
we will not deny, for the desire to pay off the mortgage 
was now the ruling passion of his life, and there was 
before him the means of doing it. But temptation is 
sin only when one consents to it. “It is one thing to be 
tempted, Escalus ; another thing to fall.” 

John spent a restless night. In his dreams he re- 
called his frightful experience with the bull, and felt 
himself being gored to death by that vicious animal. 
It was a great relief to him to hear the conch shell 
the next morning, calling him away from unpleasant 
associations to the enjoyment of a good breakfast, 
and then out to the active duties of the farm. There 
he could lay aside, for one day at least, the responsi- 
bilities and burdens which his new position had im- 
posed upon him. As soon after breakfast as he and 
Gus could get ready they were off for the farm. 
Here he felt better. It seemed to him that there was 
no freedom in the world like that which the honest 
farmer enjoys. Away from the stuffy atmosphere of 
the store, out in God’s boundless air, he could breathe 
deeper, think clearer, and work with a perfectly con- 
tented heart. 

“You’s look kinder chawed up dis mawnhT,” said 
Gus as they rode along the highway toward the plan- 
tation. It sho’ly don’t agree wid you to stay in de 


THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED. 


75 

sto’ o’ nights. I mighty glad you didn’t shoot Marse 
Ewin’ las’ night when he went down dar to see what 
you’s a-doin’.” 

“Who told you about that?” 

“Little bu’d, honey. I done tol’ you I got a little 
bu’d what tells me lots o’ things,” said the negro, 
giggling and snickering as though he were in the 
possession of the greatest secret in the world, and had 
a joke on John worth preserving in mystery to the 
end of the world. 

“I’ll break your neck, nigger, if you ever tell that 
on me in town,” said John. 

“I’se put’ near as big as you, I reckon, when it 
comes to dat. You heah me, boy, I neber yit went 
back on my pardnah, but you ain’t scare dis niggah 
wid no big talk like dat,” said Gus sharply ; and for the 
remainder of the journey the two lapsed into silence. 

At last John said : “Never mind it, Gus. I was just 
joking. I would not hurt you for any consideration. 
Eut say, Gus, I would rather you wouldn’t tell the 
boys about that.” 

“Well, den, don’t say nuthin’ mo’ ’bout breakin’ my 
neck, and I ain’t tell nuthin’ ’tall on you.” 

“Gus, tell me just one thing. Did Mr. Murray tell 
you about that?” 

“No, he didn’t tell me nuthin’ ; I wuz down dare and 
hea’d it all myse’f. I wuz a-standin’ right dar by de 
do’ when Marse Ewin’ come down dar and knock on 
de do’. I seed old John standin’ dar wid de shotgun 
in his han’, and I says to myse’f : ‘01’ John Carey not 
gwine to shoot nuthin’. Marse Ewin’ skeer him to 
death.’ ” 

“What were you doing down there, Gus ?” 


7 6 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


“O, nuthin’ ; jist saunterin’ round and seein’ nuthin’ 
or nobody don’t hurt Marse Ewin’.” 

*‘Did he ask you to go?” 

“Him? No, bless yo’r soul, honey; Marse Ewin’ he 
ain’t afeered of nuthin’. If he’d seed me down dar, 
boy, he’d tuck one of dem clabbo’ds to me. Nah, 
sah ; Marse Ewin’ neber axed me to go long wid ’im.” 

John wondered if Gus knew about the money in the 
store, and a dozen times during the day he was 
tempted to ask him ; but he remembered that he had 
sworn to Mr. Murray that he would never tell any- 
body, and so he locked his secret within his own 
breast, and said: “No, I will never tell it to anybody 
on earth. I have sworn to keep it, and I will.” Finally 
the day’s work was done, and the boys went in home 
to do their chores and get their suppers, and John to go 
back to his charge in the store. 

He was surprised when he opened the store door 
to feel nothing of that sense of fear which he had 
experienced the night before. He slammed the big 
door to, and turned the key in the lock with a defiant 
air. He took down the old shotgun from its place, 
and with a great flourish brought it to bear upon the 
door : “Now come in, Mr. Robber,” said he. “I’ll just 
show you what I can do to you.” 

He could hardly resist firing the gun into the door, 
so real did his imaginary foe seem to him. But he 
did not. He put the gun back in its place, walked 
to his accustomed seat, and sat down. “It’s about 
bed time, I think,” said he with a yawn; “but I be- 
lieve I will go and see if that money is all right before 
I turn in.” So saying he walked behind the counter, 
took the brown paper from its hiding place, and un* 


THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED. 


77 


rolled it. It was not heavy — it was paper money, fives 
and tens, all of it — yet his hands trembled beneath it 
as though it weighed fifty pounds. He did not stop to 
count it to see if it was all there. He felt that 
there was danger in handling it, and he knew that 
he really had no right to take it from its hiding place 
except in case of fire. He rolled it up carefully, and 
put it in the exact spot where he found it. Every 
night for the next six months he repeated this ; but 
with less and less excitement, and finally with no 
twinge of conscience at all. 


CHAPTER VI. 

John Has a Visitor. 

Everything went well on the farm. The wheat 
harvest had come, and the golden grain in most boun- 
tiful supply had been carefully cut and shocked, and 
was now waiting the coming of the thrasher. The 
oats and the hay were exceedingly fine, and John re- 
joiced to hear Mr. Murray say as he walked over the 
farm: “This is the best crop of everything I have 
seen on the place for a long time.” The com was 
growing nicely. The green blades waved in the sun- 
shine a glad welcome to John every morning, and bade 
him good night every evening with the invitation : “I 
hope you will come back early in the morning.” John 
loved the work, and was delighted with the luxuriant 
crop which he believed a beneficent Father was giv- 
ing him. He and Gus were now plowing the corn 
for the last time. Every day it was growing so rap- 
idly that the singletrees began to endanger the strong, 
vigorous stalks, and the two boys were hurried in their 
efforts to get through plowing before the corn got so 
large that they could not plow it at all. The weather 
was getting intensely hot, and the teams suffered from 
the intense heat and the extra efforts of the plowers 
to hurry the work along. Both of the boys heartily 
wished for the coming of the 4th of July, when their 
present task would be finished. 

Mr. Murray was delighted with his new man. He 
declared he was the best boy to work that he had 

(78) 


JOHN HAS A VISITOR. 


79 


ever seen. “He is the very soul of honor,” said he 
to his neighbor, Mr. Pryor. “I could trust him any- 
where in the world. A boy who has had the train- 
ing he has had in a religious home, whose conscience 
is quick to discern the very approach of evil, can be 
relied upon in any important place, no matter what 
the responsibility.” 

Mr. Pryor had a boy working for him about the 
same age as John, and reared in the same neighbor- 
hood and under very similar conditions and circum- 
stances. He thought that his boy, James Cochran, 
was the best boy in the world; and he did not think 
that John Carey, though he might be a good boy, 
could be the equal of James. The two old gentlemen 
in friendly debate discussed the virtues and manly 
traits of the two boys very earnestly. “I will admit,” 
said Mr. Murray, “that James is a little quicker to 
learn than John. In our Sunday school lessons he 
seems to get into the inner meaning of things better 
than John — that is, he gets it quicker — but I doubt if 
in the end he retains it quite so well.” 

“He is quicker and surer in everything,” interrupt- 
ed Mr. Pryor. “James is one of the brightest boys 
I ever saw.” 

“We are exceedingly fortunate in having two such 
boys to serve us in our old age,” said Mr. Murray. 
“I shall not quarrel with you about which is the bet- 
ter of the two. I am really glad to hear you say that 
James is such a good boy. He is an old acquaint- 
ance and a warm personal friend of John’s. He has 
been to my house several times to dinner with John, 
and we are always glad to have him. He came to 
see John the first week he was here ; and I think that 


8o 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


he has been at my house every Sunday since, and I 
hope that he will continue to come. The two seem 
perfectly happy together, and I think it is well that 
neither has formed any bad associations since they 
came to our village.” 

A week after this conversation between Mr. Mur- 
ray and Mr. Pryor, John was sitting in the store study- 
ing his next Sunday’s lesson, when there came a gen- 
tle rap at the back door. 

“Who is there?” shouted John. 

“Jim Cochran,” answered a clear voice outside. 

John arose and quickly opened the door, and said: 
“Come in, Jim. I am so glad to see you! It is so 
lonesome down here that I was just wishing some- 
body would come.” 

“Studying Sunday school lesson?” asked Jim. 

“Yes. I don’t quite understand this temptation 
business as St. James puts it. He says: ‘Every man 
is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, 
and enticed. Then when lust hath conceived, it bring- 
eth forth sin.’ What do you understand by ‘enticed?’ ” 

“Well, I don’t know the exact meaning. Have you 
a dictionary ?” 

“No, I have not. I wish I did have one. I so often 
need it in studying the lesson.” 

“What do the notes on the lesson say about it?” 

“They say that ‘enticed’ means ‘drawn on, encour- 
aged to do a thing.’ ” 

“Well, isn’t that plain enough? What do you want 
to have a thing plainer than that for ?” 

“But how could he be drawn on by his own lusts. 
I think it is the devil who always draws people on 
to commit sin. Mother has always told me it is.” 


JOHN HAS A VISITOR. 8 1 

“I don’t remember to have heard my mother say 
anything about it. Mothers don’t know everything 
by a jug full,” said James with a contemptuous air. 

John was shocked at this statement, which smacked 
so much of disrespect for mothers. If there was any- 
thing in the universe that he loved and venerated, it 
was his mother; and he would as soon have heard 
James take the name of the Deity in vain as to have 
heard him make a remark that reflected upon his 
mother’s intelligence. He said: “James, I think you 
ought never to say that, even if you think it is true. 
I suppose there are some things that mothers do not 
know; but I know that my mother knows a great 
deal more than I do, and it hurts me all over to hear 
anybody say anything that seems to reflect on the best 
friend I have ever had in this world.” 

“Well, don’t mind it, John. I didn’t mean any- 
thing by that remark. It was a very foolish, careless 
speech, and I humbly beg your pardon.” 

“That is certainly a very manly apology, James, and 
my pardon is freely granted. Now shall we go on 
with this Sunday school lesson?” 

“Let us talk about something else for a while, and 
come back to the Sunday school lesson later. Were 
you ever in love, John?” 

John laughed a real hearty laugh of surprise, and 
said : “Why, no, boy ; I never thought of such a thing. 
Were you?” 

“Yes, I am in love now, and I am about as crazy 
over it as anybody you ever saw. I can’t think of 
anything else, I can hardly endure to talk about any- 
thing else, and I am sometimes afraid that I will allow 
the ruling passion of my heart to speak out in the 
6 


82 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


Sunday school class and betray me before Mr. Mur- 
ray.” 

And who is the happy young lady who is the object 
of your heart’s devotion?” asked John, becoming in- 
tensely interested in his friend’s romance. 

“I cannot say that she is very happy in the fact 
that I love her so dearly. On the contrary, she seems 
to be greatly distressed by it, and that is what is wor- 
rying me so.” 

“That is too bad,” said John with real sympathetic 
tone. “Why is she so distressed?” 

“She says that I am too young and too poor to 
think of marrying; but the truth is, she does not love 
me because I am poor. If I were only a rich man’s 
son, I believe I could make it all right; but as it is, 
she will not permit me to come to see her again un- 
less I shall agree not to bring up this disagreeable 
subject. I tell you, John, you may talk about the 
temptation in that Sunday school lesson all you like, 
but I believe the devil could easily lead me to do any- 
thing he wished if he could show me that by so do- 
ing I could gain that girl’s affection.” 

“You do not mean that you would do a dishonor- 
able thing to gain her affection? I wouldn’t have a 
woman who could be gained in that way. No, sir; 
I don’t know anything about love affairs, but I would 
die before I would stoop to a dishonorable thing for 
any girl that ever lived,” said John. 

“You don’t know what you would do, neither do 
I,” said James. “One never knows what he would 
do until he is tried, as Mr. Murray said to us in last 
Sunday’s lesson. I haven’t been tried yet; but I do 
wish that something would happen some way that 


JOHN HAS A VISITOR. 


*3 

would give me some money, so that I could go to my 
girl and say : ‘Here, you see I have the money to take 
care of you. Let us get married and be happy.” 

“Ah, yes, go, make your money. Don’t be in a 
hurry. Wait for the money and for the time to come 
when you can go to her, and upon honorable terms 
ask her hand in marriage. Then she will accept you, 
and you will both be happier afterwards. But come, 
you have not told me who this bonnie lass is.” 

“O, I expect to do that. You don’t think I would 
steal the money to win her love, do you ? If you do, I 
shall cut your acquaintance right here and now, for all 
time and for eternity too. I will have you know that 
I am thoroughly honest. I never stole anything in my 
life, and nothing could induce me to play that role.” 

“Whoop! you are all aflame. Who said anything 
about stealing? It was you who suggested that the 
devil could lead you to do anything in the world in 
order to secure that girl’s affection.” 

“I beg your pardon again, John. I am talking like 
a fool to-night. Don’t you know that a man in love 
is the greatest fool in the world? He is always say- 
ing something that he does not mean, and meaning 
something that he cannot say, and doing something 
that he did not intend to do.” 

“Ah, stop your nonsense ! Tell me who your girl is. 

I can’t stand this suspense any longer.” 

“I have been in suspense several months, and it 
hasn’t killed me yet.” 

“I am afraid that I shall have to do what suspense 
has so far failed in doing if you do not tell me pretty 
soon who that girl is.” 


8 4 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


“Her name is Mary Thornton. She is the loveliest 
of the lovely, the very pink of perfection, the sweetest 
girl in the world. Do you know her ?” 

“Yes, I have seen her in church and in the choir. 
She is a lovely girl. How long have you known her ?” 

“I have known her for three years. I met her when 
I first came here. I have been going to see her regu- 
larly once a week for the last six months; and it was 
only last week that she told me she could never think 
of marrying me, and that she hoped I would never 
mention the subject again. I tell you, John, that an- 
swer came nearer taking away my breath and break- 
ing my heart than anything I ever heard in my life. ,> 

“Ah, pshaw! Taint heart never won fair lady/ 
Have courage, old. boy. Don’t you know that the 
storybooks all show that what a woman says she 
won’t do that is the very thing she will do, if her 
lover is only persistent. She is just sounding the 
depths of your love now, and putting you off until 
she is fully assured you are in dead earnest; then she 
will accept your offer and it will all come out right. 
Cheer up. I am ashamed of your going around here 
with your head down like that. You ought to be more 
of a man, and I thought you were stronger than that.” 

“You don’t know what you are talking about. 
What distresses me is that I have such a slow way of 
making money that before I can earn enough money 
to win even a favorable consideration from her some 
other fellow will have married her and gone. That’s 
the trouble, boy. You don’t seem to understand.” 

“O yes, I do; but what is the use of worrying? 
You don’t intend to steal, and there is nothing left for 


JOHN HAS A VISITOR. 


§5 


you to do but to go on with your work as patiently 
as you can. Go and read that old story of Jacob 
serving fourteen years for the girl he loved, and see 
how he came out. He got the girl and a great deal 
more. How is* your corn crop?” 

“It is all right. But see, it is half-past ten 
o’clock. I must go home. It is a mile and a half 
out to Mr. Pryor’s, and it will be twelve o’clock be- 
fore I can get to bed.” 

“Stay all night with me. Uncle Ewing made me 
swear when I came down here that I would never 
allow anybody to stay all night with me; but you are 
nobody, Jim Cochran, and it would be no violation 
whatever of my oath if I should allow you to come 
down here and stay every night with me,” said John, 
laughing and kindly patting James on the back. 

“That’s all right. The day will come when you 
will say I am somebody; so will Miss Mary. I swear 
by the eternal hills that I will make a man of myself 
for her sake if for nobody else’s. No, I thank you, 
John ; I can’t stay all night. Mr. Murray wouldn’t 
like it; and, besides, I had better go home.” 

“He will never know the difference. He is in bed 
sound asleep, and the conch shell will wake you in the 
morning in plenty of time to get home for your break- 
fast. Say, we are confidential friends now. You 
have told me your secret. Stay all night with me, 
and I will tell you mine.” 

“What is the nature of your secret?” 

“Will you stay and see?” 

“Yes, I guess so, but I know I ought to go home. 
But begin. I am anxious to know what it is you have 
to tell me.” 


86 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


“Come around here,” said John, leading the way 
around the counter; and, stopping before that sec- 
tion of the shelving where the calico was, he put his 
hand behind the goods and drew out a roll of brown 
paper. Slowly unrolling it, he held it yp before Jim’s 
astonished eyes, and said : “How do you like the looks 
of that, old fellow?” 

Jim stared at it in dumb amazement. He had nev- 
er thought of seeing that' much money anywhere in 
the world, much less in that little frame store. “How 
much is there of it?” he asked. 

“Five thousand dollars,” was the response. 

“Did you ever count it?” 

“No, I never counted it, but it is there. Mr. Mur- 
ray said it was. Let’s count it.” And the two sat 
down and carefully laid aside the fives in one pile 
and then the tens in another, and counted five hundred 
five-dollar bills and two hundred and fifty ten-dollar 
bills. 

“Don’t you wish it was yours?” said James. 

“I surely do. Half of it would do me,” said John. 
So saying, he rolled up the money exactly as it was 
before and put it back in its place, and the two boys 
resumed their seats. 

They were now wide-awake, and no thought of go- 
ing to bed was to be entertained until they had talked 
their excitement down. They said nothing more about 
the money; and, judging from the conversation, which 
ran on gleefully about the things of their childhood 
days, neither of them thought of it any more that 
night. As they sat there talking over matters of com- 
mon interest to both one might have said that the two 
boys were very much alike. They did have many 


JOHN HAS A VISITOR. 


87 


things in common. A deep bond of sympathy and of 
mutual confidence existed between them. They had 
been born and reared in the backwoods country, where 
they were deprived of the benefits of refined society, 
and very few opportunities for culture and education 
were afforded them. The simple manners and hearty 
freedom which country life develops belonged to each. 
They were very poor, and each as a hired hand was 
struggling with the present burden of poverty in the 
hope that sometime a better day would crown them 
with its blessings. But in character the two were 
very different. John was sincere, honest, and unre- 
served. He was generous to a fault, and never sus- 
picious of a friend. His confiding nature was easily 
imposed upon, because he did not think that any of 
his friends could ever want him to do wrong. He 
had hitherto led a pure life. He had never before 
betrayed a trust nor revealed a secret which he had 
promised to keep. There is no accounting for his 
action that night except that he was overcome by the 
tempter. 

James was honest only on the surface. He had 
never stolen anything; but he lacked in real, sincere, 
honest principles. He could put on the air of a 
saint, and wear his cloak of righteousness over his 
wolfs skin in a most becoming manner. It was his 
superb skill in the matter of general deception that 
led the people of Roxbury to believe that he was very 
pious and that he would some day be a preacher of 
great renown. He was intensely selfish in his na- 
ture, but he knew how to hide it so perfectly that 
none but those who knew him best ever suspected 
him of it. He was ambitious and greedy beyond the 


88 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


power of description. He was cool and deliberate in 
action, and could feign excitement, when it served his 
purpose to do so, as perfectly as though he had been 
trained to it by the best of tragedians. 

Temptation was a very different thing to John from 
what it was to James. To the former it was a sud- 
den impulse, or a suggestion of some very desirable 
end, to be attained immediately without regard to con- 
sequences, but an impulse that was generally held in 
check until his conscience could answer the question: 
“Is it right?” When this answer was given, what- 
ever the force of the suggestion, it was at once 
dropped, and the mind turned to other things. But 
with the latter, temptation was not an impulse, but a 
conviction of a possibility to be realized without the 
probability of being caught. All the consequences 
were carefully weighed in every temptation, and 
nothing that was really desirable was ever dismissed 
from James's mind until he was thoroughly satisfied 
that it was impossible to do it without being caught. 
He was as cold-blooded in his thoughts of evil as 
some practiced villain, but he was without the expe- 
rience of the latter. He had never done a villainous 
deed, but only an opportunity was needed to amply 
prove that he was capable of it. 

John had never suspected his tried and trusted 
friend of being susceptible to any kind of tempta- 
tion that would lead to degradation and ruin ; and had 
any one suggested that James was the kind of char- 
acter he really was, John would have resented it as 
a malicious slander, and he would have been willing 
to follow up his statement with whatever consequence 
the slanderer might choose. He believed in James as 


JOHN HAS A VISITOR. 


s 9 


confidently as did Mr. Pryor, and he thought that his 
secret was just as safe in James’s heart as it was in 
his own. He was proud to enroll James’s name on 
the roll of his trusted and tried friends. James was 
a friend to John as only a hypocrite can be a friend. 
He was glad to have a place to visit, some one to 
whom he could talk, and who would listen to his 
tales of woe and sympathize with his misfortunes; 
but beyond that he did not care a fig for John or for 
his friendship. 

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by 
John’s looking at the clock on the table, and saying: 
“I declare, Jim, it is twelve o’clock. Let’s go to bed. 
That old conch shell will be calling us to get up be- 
fore we get to sleep.” 

“Yes,” said James, “I am getting sleepy; I suppose 
we had better go to bed.” 

So they undressed, and were soon in bed. But 
they were not so soon asleep. John asked James 
more about his sweetheart, and James was never too 
sleepy to talk on that subject. He expatiated on the 
girl’s beauty until John felt himself half in love with 
her. And thus they talked on until “the wee, sma’ 
hours” of the night, and when at last they had fallen 
asleep it was so near the time for the conch shell’s call 
that when it blew they both felt that they had as well 
not been in bed at all. But they sprang out of bed 
and dressed hurriedly; and James went away to Mr. 
Pryor’s, and John, with a troubled look and a dejected 
feeling, went up to the house for his breakfast. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The Storm Breaks. 

If all the emotions that arise in the human heart 
during a single day were written, they would compose 
a surprising medley. There would be moments of 
exultant joy, followed by seasons of great depres- 
sion and gloom ; moments of the most devout and 
thoughtful meditation, succeeded by the wildest va- 
garies and the fiercest temptations with which Satan 
can assail the soul. There would be moments when 
kindness would envelop the entire being as with a 
sheen of glory, and tenderness and love would domi- 
nate every faculty of the soul, and these would give 
way to the bitterest prejudices, if not to the dreadful 
influences of envy and hate. 

John was not a stranger to the conflicts of this duel 
nature. He realized fully that he was now Dr. Jekyll, 
and then Mr. Hyde, all the day long. His better 
nature struggled to bring him to repentance and to 
confession of his great sin ; but the evil nature within 
whispered, “Do not be in a hurry.” There were 
times when he determined that he would take his 
horse out of the plow and would go and see Mr. Mur- 
ray and confess to him that he had broken his solemn 
pledge, and had asked James to stay all night with 
him, and that he had actually shown him the money ; 
and that he would tell him he was so distressed about 
his course of action that he would not content him- 
self at work until he had made a clean breast of the 
( 9 °) 


THE STORM BREAKS. 9 1 

whole matter and relieved his heart and his con- 
science of their intolerable burden. 

Had he done so, Mr. Murray would in all proba- 
bility have forgiven his hasty, unthoughted action. 
He would, of course, have been greatly surprised, and 
those keen, blue eyes would have searched the depths 
of John’s soul as a surgeon searches through the 
body of his patient with the aid of X-rays ; and then he 
would have delivered a withering rebuke, as only he 
could do. But that would have been easy to bear, 
for John felt that he so much deserved it that it would 
have been a relief to his feelings to have had a real 
scolding. But if Mr. Murray, contrary to all our 
expectations, feeling himself so outraged by John’s 
flagrant violation of a solemn pledge, had driven him 
from his house and his employ, and told him never to 
appear in his presence again, John would have gone 
away knowing that he had done all in his power to 
right the wrong which he had committed. And al- 
though he would have been deeply grieved at the loss 
of his position, he would have carried away with him 
a manly self-respect, and that is better than all silver 
and gold, better than the plaudits and honors of men. 
He would have had also the blessed consolation of the 
Word which says : “If we confess our sins, he is faith- 
ful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us 
from all unrighteousness.” This would have given 
him peace of heart and soul. “Peace with one’s self 
and one’s God lends wings to the soul.” These wings 
would have borne him aloft above his troubles; and 
if he never returned to Mr. Murray’s employ, he 
would have been borne to something better than he 
had known even with his benefactor, Mr. Murray. 


9 2 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


There is no such thing as despair for the righteous, 
honest soul. 

But when his conscience persuaded him to go and 
make his confession, the tempter would whisper in his 
ear : “Why should you act so rashly, and endanger 
your standing with Mr. Murray and give old Tate 
another chance to take your father’s farm, on account 
of a single lie? What harm has come of it? What 
harm can come of it? James is certainly as honest 
as you are. He will never betray your secret. Mr. 
^Murray will never know anything about it if you do 
not tell him, and why should you be so foolish as to 
worry yourself sick about a mere trifle?” 

But John knew it was no trifle. He had willfully 
betrayed a solemn and sacred trust. He had told a 
grievous lie. And a lie once spoken is a withering, 
blighting curse upon an upright life. It is like a can- 
cerous growth in the body; it is not content to lie 
dormant and hidden, but it must permeate the whole 
being with its insidious poison until the entire body 
is corrupted by its foul contagion. “It doth eat as a 
canker.” The downfall of every character begins with 
a lie. It was no light matter that disturbed John 
Carey’s soul. A great sin had been committed by 
him, a withering, blighting curse had fallen upon his 
pure young life. The memory of it cast a gloom over 
all of his present surroundings and hung a dark pall 
over all his future hopes. The thought that he who 
had been so well trained at home should show such 
weakness as to bring all this condemnation upon him- 
self vexed his inmost soul. He was angry with him- 
self and all the world. Everything went wrong all 
day. Gus was a constant source of annoyance to him. 


THE STORM BREAKS. 


93 


He sometimes felt that if he could take a club and* 
beat that negro half to death he would feel better. 
He jerked the lines of his plow horse until the blood 
ran down from the bits in the poor creature’s mouth. 
Without any reason he whipped the unoffending ani- 
mal until it was almost beyond his control. In the 
uncalled-for melee, the horse dragged the plow out of 
the regular furrow and destroyed some of the largest 
and best corn in the field. As the frightened animal 
struggled to get free from his unmerciful assailant, he 
caught the singletree around a stump and broke it in 
two. The plow ran under a root of the same stump 
and broke off one of the shovels. He had to take the 
horse out and go to the blacksmith shop to have the 
plow repaired before he could plow another furrow. 
When he got there he found a number of men ahead 
of him, each anxiously waiting for the patient black- 
smith to finish his job. John wanted the smith to lay 
down the work of all those who had come before him 
and do his work at once, because Mr. Murray patron- 
ized his shop more extensively than any of them, and 
besides he was in a great hurry. The blacksmith only 
laughed at him, and asked him : “How long have you 
been crazy?” John was almost furious, and caught 
himself nearer on the point of swearing than he had 
ever been in his life. This served to startle him back 
to his senses, and he sat down and patiently waited 
for the blacksmith to finish everything that had come 
in before him, and until his own plow and singletree 
were mended. Then he went back to his work. But 
just as he got in sight of the field he heard the faithful 
conch shell blowing the hour of twelve. He called to 


94 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


Gus : “Take out.” They watered and fed their horses, 
went to the shade of a large oak tree, sat down on 
the green grass, opened a well-filled basket, and, in 
sullen silence, proceeded to eat their dinners. Not 
a word was spoken during the meal. When it was 
finished Gus stretched himself out on the ground, and 
was soon fast asleep. John did not feel sleepy; but 
he threw himself on the ground, in sheer desperation, 
to see if he could find a little rest. Having been awake 
nearly all of the previous night, he was more subject 
to the charms of Morpheus than he thought, and in a 
minute he too was fast asleep. In all the time he 
had worked for Mr. Murray he had never lain down 
to take a nap at noon, though he had followed the in- 
variable custom of taking just one hour at noon for 
the horses to rest on a cool day, and an hour and a 
half when the weather was very hot. But to-day he 
slept two hours. He woke up and looked at his 
watch, and shouted to Gus : “Get up, you sleepy- 
headed nigger ; we ought to have been plowing nearly 
an hour ago.” Slowly the negro aroused himself, 
and crawled to his feet as though he were not in a 
hurry, nor his conscience by any means disturbed by 
the loss of the time he had spent in sleep. 

The sun was beaming down with great power, 
and scarcely a leaf upon the trees moved in the ab- 
solute stillness that seemed everywhere to pervade 
the whole earth. The boys plowed three rounds, and 
as they came out of the corn which completely hid 
horses and men in the furrows the horses were in a 
perfect lather. “We shall have to let them rest a lit- 
tle, Gus, it is so awful hot; they can’t stand it,” said 
John. The horses’ heads were turned toward the 


THE STORM BREAKS. 


95 


southwest, and the boys sat down on the plow beams 
to rest. Gus stretched his arms above his head, and 
with a great yawn, that disclosed two full rows of 
white teeth, in which every molar could be distinctly 
seen, he brought his hands upon his knees with a 
slap, and said: “Mis’ah John, how you like dat Jim 
Cochran ?” 

“How do I like him? Why, he is my best friend. 
What do you mean? Don’t you know he is my 
friend?” 

“I’se mighty sorry to heah it, sho’. He ain’t no fit 
’soshiate for a nice young man like you is.” 

“Why, what do you know about him?” 

“More’n I orter tell, I ’spects. Niggahs ain’t got 
no bizness meddlin’ ’long wid white folks’ bizness.” 

“Well, you have been a good friend of mine, Gus; 
and if you know anything bad about Jim, I think you 
ought to tell me.” 

“I ain’t nuthin’ but a po’, ignerant niggah, and it 
ain’t right fur the likes of me fur to be lecturin’ smart 
folks like you is; but I dis want to tell you dat de 
sooner you done drap dat Jim Cochran de better you 
gwine to be off. ’Ca’se, des as sho’ as we is a-settin’ 
heah on dis heah plow beam, ef you don’t drap ’im 
your name gwine ter be as black in dis town as de 
skin of dis niggah what’s a-runnin’ on ter ye.” 

“I shall not allow you to talk that way about my 
friend. You tell me now what you know about Jim 
Cochran, or you and I are going to have trouble.” 

There was a firmness in John’s tone that Gus had 
never heard before, and he looked at him seriously, 
and said : “You know I done tol’ you ’bout dat little 
bu’d what I got. Wall, las’ night I wuz a-layin’ in my 


9 6 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


bed wid de winder up so as to git all de fresh air I 
could, and dat little bu’d he done cum to de winder, he 
did, and he sez, sez ’e : ‘Gus, dat Jim Cochran is de 
biggest hypercrite w’at ever cum to Roxbury. He 
don’t do nuthin’ of a Sunday but run round heah wid 
his Bible under his arm and look sanctermonious- 
like, and talk like buttah wouldn’t melt in his mouth ; 
and den when dark done cum and udder white folks 
done gone to bed, dat air Jim Cochran is round 
’soshiatin’ wid de niggahs.’ Hit sez : ‘Ef you don’t be- 
lieve me, des ax dat yellah gal what live des ’cross de 
bridge.’ Hit sez to me, ‘Jim Cochran done go wid 
Andy McCulloch and Jack Sears an’ he’p ’em steal all 
ol’ man McClellan’s chickens and eggs, des same as 
if he wuz a common niggah ;’ and it sez he done tol* 
ol’ man Pryor so many lies dat de ol’ man plum hoo- 
dooed wid ’im. Dat is des what it say. He gwine 
fur ter fix you too, hunny, mine what dis heah niggah 
tell ye ; he is gwine fur ter do ye up ef ye don’t shake 
’im right away.” 

John sat there through all of this tirade as pale and 
speechless as if he had been transfixed by the spear 
of a Hottentot rather than by the earnest advice of 
his dusky friend. He felt two strong passions rising 
within him, and each clamoring for immediate utter- 
ance. One was the sense of burning indignation 
against the negro for this cruel, false, and uncalled- 
for incrimination of his best friend. Under the in- 
fluence of that feeling his muscles seemed like bands 
of steel, and he knew that he could arise and stamp 
the negro into the ground, and it required all his will 
power to keep him from doing it. The other was the 
fear, the awful, horrible fear, that the negro’s words 


THE STORM BREAKS. 


97 


were true. Under the spell of that emotion he felt 
as weak as an invalid just creeping out of bed after a 
long and serious illness. His muscles relaxed; he 
was limp and helpless. He could not even move 
under the weight of the overwhelming burden which 
Gus had so innocently rolled upon him. If what 
Gus had said was true, he had not only betrayed a 
sacred trust the night before, but he had furnished an 
irresistible temptation to a thief. “My God,” said 
he under his breath, “what will become of me if he — if 
he — if he should” — He dared not finish that sen- 
tence. The great, white eyes of the negro were star- 
ing him full in the face, evidently striving to read in 
its expressions the deep secrets of his soul. He must 
not let him know what it is that he fears most. He 
must not talk, he must not think any more just now 
on that subject. But he could not shake off the spell 
which the negro had thrown over him. In thinking 
over what he had said he saw a vision of the future 
as horribly realistic as a nightmare. He saw himself 
not only the object of bitter hatred and condemna- 
tion but a victim of circumstances which he could 
never explain. “O mother,” thought he, “what will 
become of you if that should happen?” He sprang 
up from his seat as though some hideous monster 
behind him were threatening his life. He was wild 
with excitement. He trembled from head to foot, 
and his face was as pale as death. But knowing that 
his only safety was in silently following the plow, he 
said: “Get up from there, nigger, and let’s go to 
work.” 

Horses and boys plunged into the furrows, where 
the tall corn soon hid them from view. Deathlike 

7 


9 8 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


stillness was in the air. Not a blade of corn rustled 
with the wind. The ends of the long, green blades 
began to curl under the intense heat. The horses 
and men almost perished with the fiery heat that was 
poured down from above and reflected back with so 
much power from the ground below. In addition to 
the discomforts of the weather, John suffered from the 
intense heat of excitement. The perspiration poured 
from every pore of the skin, his heart fluttered in his 
throat, and the great, blue veins in his hands were 
distended as though they would burst. He trudged 
along in silence, but his thoughts were swifter than 
the wind. He felt as he had never felt before the 
iniquity of his base betrayal of Mr. Murray’s confi- 
dence. Hitherto the tempter had silenced his fears 
by saying, “No harm can come of it;” but now his 
conscience was thundering in his ears : “You are a 
traitor, John Carey; a base, ignoble, cowardly traitor. 
You know you have done wrong, and you are too 
cowardly to go to Mr. Murray and confess it. Shame ! 
Shame!” His anxiety and fears well-nigh ran him 
crazy. He could not begin to fathom the many hor- 
rible things that stared him in the face as the result of 
his conduct. His only consolation was the hope that 
Gus was a malicious liar. Still he could not forget the 
negro’s earnest face, the solemn, slowly measured 
words. How could he tell a lie in such a serious tone 
and with such a solemn visage? This question made 
him tremble from head to foot. He felt himself walk- 
ing upon the narrow confines of hell. He was reap- 
ing the first fruits of his own sowing. “Whatsoever 
a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” “To the 
proverb, ‘Justice holds an even scale,” must be added 


THE STORM BREAKS. 


99 


the words, ‘Justice never slumbers.’ Transgressions 
are self-punishing. Our earth is too small to make 
wrongdoing safe. Be the speck upon an apple ever 
so minute, the decay upon one side will journey 
around and meet the corruption upon the other side. 
Oft eternal justice seems to shrink our earth to the 
size of an apple, until at last every wrongdoer and his 
victim stand face to face.” 

Slowly the teams made their way through the corn 
to the end of the row, and returned to the place where 
the boys had allowed them to stop and rest. As 
they came out of the dark, green world in which they 
had been so long hidden they discovered a very de- 
cided change in the atmosphere and in the appearance 
of the western horizon. A strong breeze had started 
up, and low in the west a dense cloud could be dis- 
tinctly seen. Low, muttering tones of thunder could 
be heard in the distance. 

“It’s gwine ter rain,” said Gus ; “hadn't we better 
take out ?” 

“I think we can make one more round,” said John, 
and they started into the corn again. When they 
returned the wind was tossing the tall oak trees out- 
side of the fence to and fro as though they were mere 
playthings. The corn was popping and cracking in 
the wind as though it were about to be snapped off at 
the roots. The air was full of flying dust, and the 
forked streaks of lightning upon the bosom of the 
cloud and the crash of the thunder seemed so near 
that Gus did not wait for instructions, but proceeded 
to take out his horse, and, mounting upon his back, he 
rode as rapidly as he could toward a log cabin built 
on the northeast corner of the farm for a tool house. 


L.ofC. 


IOO 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


He was closely followed by John. As they reached 
the cabin door the great, round drops of rain began 
to fall. They hitched their horses to the east side of 
the cabin to shelter them as much as possible from the 
storm, and were just ready to run into the house when 
they heard the sound of a horse’s feet clattering over 
the road. Evidently some traveler who knew of the 
cabin was doing his utmost to reach a shelter from 
the storm, that was now increasing in violence every 
moment. Presently the horse came into view, and, 
to the great surprise of both the boys, it was a fair, 
young girl who was riding him. She rode fearlessly 
up to the door of the cabin, and, before John could 
offer to assist her, sprang to the ground. 

“My name is Thornton,” said she, “Mary Thornton. 
May I have shelter from the storm in your cabin?” 

“Yes, certainly you can,” said John. “Come right 
in. Gus, take off the lady’s saddle and bring it in out 
of the rain.” 

The negro snatched off the saddle, and, taking the 
horse around to the east side of the cabin, hitched 
him beside the others. Then he ran into the house, 
carrying the saddle in his hand. 

“Miss Thornton, my name is John Carey. I have 
heard my friend, Jim Cochran, speak of you, and I 
am really glad this storm has blown you in upon us. 
Here, Gus, bring that saddle over here and put it on 
this shaving horse. Now, Miss Mary, take a seat. 
It isn’t just the kind of accommodations I should like 
to give you, but you see it is the best I can do.” 

“Yes, sir, I thank you,” said she, and walked over 
to the shaving horse and John helped her into the 
saddle. 


THE STORM BREAKS. 


IOI 


“Gus, bring that large, wooden block for a rest for 
her feet.” 

“O, thank you ! that is quite comfortable. I suppose 
you wonder how it is that I am out here so far from 
home at a time like this? I really had no thought 
of its raining when I left home. It has not rained for 
sc long I suppose that I had forgotten that it could 
rain. But O dear, just listen to that torrent pour- 
ing upon the roof! Do you think, Mr. Carey, that 
there is any danger of the roof giving away under 
the weight of that terrible rainfall?” 

“Not at all. You are perfectly safe here, Miss 
Thornton, from both the wind and the rain. The 
cabin is well built, and it is very strong.” 

Just then a terrific peal of thunder brought all 
three suddenly to their feet in the middle of the floor, 
and Mary, trembling in her fright, looked into John’s 
eyes as much as to say : “I fear your assurance of 
safety is of little value.” They walked to the side of 
the cabin, and, peering out through a crack, they saw 
a tall oak tree a hundred yards away riven from top 
to the very roots by the lightning’s fierce and deadly 
stroke. Its broken limbs and shivered trunk sent a 
thrill of horror through Mary’s soul as she thought 
of the possibility of a second stroke falling upon 
the roof of the cabin. John, divining her thoughts, 
said : “You need not be afraid, Miss Mary. You know 
it is said that ‘lightning never strikes twice in the 
same place.’ ” 

“Yes, I have heard that, and that is the very thing 
that frightens me. You see there is quite a distance 
between us and that unhappy tree, and who knows but 


102 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


that this cabin is the next point in the pathway of the 
lightning’s fury?” 

John only laughed in reply, but there was a some- 
thing in the tone of that laughter and in the sparkle 
of his eyes that seemed to say to Mary : “O, you silly 
little creature, just trust in me, and I will defend you 
even against the lightning’s fury.” That she appreci- 
ated the assurance of protection thus silently com- 
municated to her was shown in the calm, quiet self- 
possession that immediately followed. 

John held out his hand to her and said: “Let me 
help you into your saddle again.” She put her lily 
white hand into that great, bronze hand of John’s, 
and looked up into his face benignly as he led her to 
the shaving horse. Reaching it, John stooped down 
and, putting his hands under her arms, lifted her into 
the saddle. The innocent blush that mounted her 
cheek spoke to him only of her bewitching beauty; 
it said nothing of the impropriety of his action. Gus 
turned his back to them and, thrusting his great fist 
into his mouth, giggled under his breath that inevita- 
ble giggle of satisfaction and delight that was one of 
his characteristics. But the young people were so in- 
terested in each other that they did not notice him. 

“I believe I started to tell you why I am out here,” 
said Mary, “and that fearful stroke of lightning sud- 
denly interrupted my story. There are two very help- 
less old people (a man and his wife) who live just 
beyond Mr. Murray’s plantation, and I often go 
over and take them a basket of provisions and make 
them a little visit, for they are very lonely in the 
world. It is such a luxury to visit God’s deserving 
poor, and to try to brighten their lives and to help 


THE STORM BREAKS. 103 

make them comfortable on their journey to the other 
world. These are such nice old people and so ap- 
preciative of everything that is d^ne for them ! I do 
love that sort of work. Mr. Carey, have you ever 
tested the truth of the Master’s promise when he said : 
“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of 
these my brethren, ye have done it unto me?” 

John reluctantly confessed that he never had tried 
it. But under the majestic influence of that sweet, 
innocent face before him he sincerely wished that he 
had devoted the whole of his life to visiting and caring 
for the poor. 

“I am trying to make up a mercy and help band 
among the young people in our Sunday school, and 
I should be pleased, Mr. Carey, to have you join it. 
The only thing that is required is an occasional visit 
to the poor or the sick and an effort made in some 
way to help them. Then we are to meet once a 
month and exchange experiences.” 

“How many have you in your band now?” 

The color slightly tinged her cheeks again as she 
remarked, half apologetically : “Only two, Mr. Coch- 
ran and myself.” “He has to work through the day 
and do his charity work during the night while other 
people sleep. He had his first experience the other 
night in trying to help the poor negroes just beyond 
the bridge. He found a poor old colored woman, 
named Harris, down there almost dead for the want 
of the necessaries of life, and he took her some chick- 
ens and eggs; he found another by the name of 
Smith, and he took her some flour and meat; and 
to another he took some medicines and engaged a 
doctor to go and see her. When he came in to re- 


104 A betrayed trust. 

port his experiences, he was the happiest boy I ever 
saw.” 

While Mary was talking so beautifully of the suc- 
cess of her enterprise, a train of thoughts quite 
foreign to the subject under discussion was rushing 
through John’s brain. He gave one significant look 
at Gus, which said: “Now there, that explains that 
vile slander you heaped upon my friend this morning. 
He was out doing a noble deed in the name of the 
Master; and you poor, ignorant negroes thought he 
was upon mischief intent.” 

Gus turned up his nose contemptuously, and, turn- 
ing his back upon John, he muttered : “Ehum, dat fel- 
ler got cheek of a guv’ment mule, I declar’. He done 
fool dat gal ’till she bel’eve he done buy dem chickens 
fur dat po’ sick ’oman. He stole ’em, dat’s what he 
did, he stole ’em ; Jack done tol’ me he stole ’em, and 
Jack knows, fur he went wid ’im and hope ’im stole 
’em. And den he tell dat gal ’bout flour and medi- 
cine. He’s de biggest liar and de biggest hypercrit’ 
w’at ever cum to Roxbury.” 

John and Mary heard not a word of the negro’s 
monologue. They were too much interested in each 
other. Before the storm had ceased John had en- 
rolled his name upon the roster of the “Mercy and 
Help Brigade,” and plans were laid for beginning the 
work as soon as possible. 

And now the storm was over. The clouds broke 
away in the west and the sinking sun shone out 
through the rift in all its beauty. A rainbow in the 
east extended across the entire face of the cloud 
above the horizon and poured its treasure of gold 
upon the hills just beyond the village. The air was 


THE STORM BREAKS. 


io 5 

fresh and full of the sweet odors of a new life. The 
world seemed to have been made over again in a single 
hour. 

“Gus, bring the lady’s horse and put the saddle on 
him,” said John. 

Presently the horse stood before the door, and Gus 
held the reins while Miss Mary put her left foot in 
John’s strong, right hand, her own right hand upon 
the horn of her saddle, and, with a spring, leaped into 
her place on the faithful pony’s back. She reined up 
his head, and, turning to John, said: “I thank you, 
Mr. Carey, for all your kindness to me to-day. I 
shall never forget this, our first meeting; and I hope 
I may be able some day to return your kindness.” 
Her clear, silvery laugh echoed in the forest and rang 
through John’s soul like the sweetest strains of heav- 
enly music. 

John wanted to make some reply to this unex- 
pected speech, but words forsook him ; he made an 
awkward bow and mumbled something under his 
breath in such a confused fashion that neither he nor 
Mary had any idea what it was he was trying to say. 
She bowed to him gently and rode away. John stood 
there watching the receding form until the last dim 
outline had faded out of sight, but not out of memory. 
It is needless to say that his heart went with her. 
But it is ever to be regretted that this pleasant little 
episode took from John’s heart that bitter sense of 
remorse which he felt so keenly just before the storm. 
In his silent meditations, as he followed the plow, he 
had determined that he would go in and confess all 
to Mr. Murray that night. But Mary’s sweet face 
and charming conversation had made him quite for- 


io 6 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


get himself, and her innocent laudation of James 
Cochran had entirely thrown him off his guard con- 
cerning the character of his friend. So he went in to 
supper and afterwards down to the store, and threw 
himself upon his bed with other thoughts than those 
which had so seriously disturbed him during the day. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Tempted ant> Tried. 

The life of every young man is beset by many 
perils. There are pitfalls for his feet in every path- 
way he treads. There is danger lurking unseen in 
every passing pleasure. There is the responsibility 
of sin in every form of beauty that charms his eye 
as well as in every passion that glows in his heart. 
He is plied with light and darkness, with sunshine 
and storm, with friends and foes ; and can never cer- 
tainly know whether he is safer in the fellowship of 
the one or under the wrath of the other. 

Satan has a perfect measure of every young man’s 
strength, and an absolutely correct estimate of all 
his weaknesses. He assails these weak points, one 
by one, and never gives over the struggle until the 
last possible effort has been made to overcome him. 
More than once has every young man realized that 
Satan was “sifting him as wheat,” and happy is he 
who is not once cast away with the chaff. 

Few young men can say as Milton said : “I am not 
one who has disgraced beauty of sentiment by de- 
formity of conduct, or the maxims of the free man by 
the actions of a slave ; but by the grace of God I have 
kept my life unsullied. I take God to witness that 
in all those places where so many things are con- 
sidered lawful I have lived sound and untouched from 
any profligacy and vice; having this thought per- 
petually with me, that, though I might escape the eyes 

(i°7) 


io8 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


of men, I certainly could not escape the eyes of God.” 
Let no one think from the above statement that 
any young man is hedged about with unconquerable 
temptations. “God is faithful, who will not suffer 
you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will 
with the temptation also make a way to escape, that 
ye may be able to bear it.” The victim of temptation 
is always a willing victim. He may surrender, but he 
is never conquered. The human will is guarded 
round about with impregnable fortifications. All the 
powers of earth and hell combined cannot storm and 
capture the soul within. God himself never essays 
to force the human will. But the soul can surrender 
its citadel to the puniest enemy that ever assails it if 
it wishes to do so. Satan's attacks are, therefore, for 
the most part in the line of parleys and persuasions. 
He seeks to impress the young that surrender is the 
quickest and the best way out of trouble. And when 
once he gets a young man to consider the question 
of surrender, with the hope that he can easily retrieve 
what he loses, then he is almost certain of his prey. 
No one can stand and argue with the devil in the hope 
that he can rout him with an argument. “Resist the 
devil, and he will flee from you,” is the only safe 
motto for every young person in the world. 

But why does God suffer the young to be tempt- 
ed? Why does he not throw around them such 
strong defenses that Satan cannot even approach 
them, and so protect their characters and their honor 
from any possibility of disgrace or misfortune? Be- 
cause, as Plato so well says : “Temptation is the first 
teacher.” We never know what is in us until we are 
tried. All the latent powers of the soul are developed 


TEMPTED AND TRIED. I09 

in the hand-to-hand struggle with the powers of dark- 
ness* 

“We may win by toil 
Endurance; saintly fortitude by pain; 

By sickness, patience; faith and trust by fear. 

But the great stimulus that spurs to life 
And crowds to generous development 
Each chastened power and passion of the soul 
Is the temptation of the soul to sin, 

Resisted and reconquered evermore.” 

We may well believe that John Carey and James 
Cochran, each in his own way, had repeatedly gone 
over the whole doctrine of temptation since that 
night they first discussed the Sunday school lesson 
contained in the first chapter of St. James. And with 
each the frequent soliloquies had increased in interest 
and force of expression as the days went by. 

One week after the events recited in the preceding 
chapter James Cochran was running the last furrows 
in Mr. Pryor’s corn, in the field overlooking the vil- 
lage of Roxbury, two miles away. The corn was 
growing luxuriantly, especially since the rain. The 
green blades were waving a real song of gratitude to 
the Giver of all blessings for the refreshing showers 
that had watered and nourished them and given 
them a luxuriant life. The promise of a bountiful 
harvest was most gratifying to Mr. Pryor, who took 
great pride in often saying that he had the best corn 
in the neighborhood, because he had the best hand 
to work in all the country. 

The sky was perfectly clear ; not a cloud as big as 
a man’s hand flecked the distant horizon. The sun 
beamed down on horse and man with terrific heat. 
James had plowed ten rounds that morning when his 


no 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


noble horse, panting and sweating, seemed ready to 
drop in his tracks. Recognizing the animal’s fatigued 
condition, he turned him into a fence corner to let him 
rest, while he sat down on the plow beam for the 
same purpose. As he sat there he soliloquized thus: 
“It seems to me that I could do better for myself 
than to continue to wear out my life plowing corn. 
Just think of all that money John Carey showed me 
in Mr. Murray’s store ! If I had that money, I would 
go over to Col. Thornton’s this very night and com- 
pel Mary to say that she would be mine. Noth- 
ing hinders her from accepting me now, except she 
knows I am a poor, onery cuss and not able to take 
care of her as she has been accustomed to live all her 
life. I wonder if I couldn’t get that five thousand 
dollars in some way, and it never be suspected that I 
had it? Five thousand dollars would set me up all 
right. I could take Mary and that money and go to 
Texas, and in a few years I could be as rich as Col. 
Thornton. Mr. Murray would hardly miss it — he is 
worth a half-million if he is worth a cent — and why 
should he care about five thousand dollars ? But the 
question is : How could I get it without being caught? 
If I were to be caught, then I would have to go to the 
penitentiary, and that would blight all my prospects ; 
besides it would break my mother’s heart. No, I 
won’t take a risk like that. I never have stolen any- 
thing, and I won’t begin now.” 

He jumped up from his seat like one startled by 
some unexpected noise, and, reining up his horse, he 
turned him into the furrow and struck him a cruel 
blow with his whip. The horse, stung and frightened, 
leaped forward and tried his best to run. Away they 


TEMPTED AND TRIED. 


1 1 I 


went through the tall corn. James was anxious to 
get away from the place where the tempter had 
spoken to him. He felt more secure in the great 
strides he was making to keep up with the horse and 
the plow. But alas! no horse moves swiftly enough 
to escape the persistent returns of Satan when his 
owner once consents to a parley so dangerous as that 
in which James had just engaged. Soon he was going 
over it all again. This time he enlarged upon every 
desirable feature of having that much money. The 
luxuries and gratifications which it promised fairly 
intoxicated him. He felt himself in a perfect glee of 
delight in the mere contemplation of it. What would 
the reality be? But one thought ever and anon dis- 
turbed his dream : “Suppose I should be caught ?” 

“No, I won’t do it ; I won’t think of doing it.” Yet 
he did think of it ; he couldn’t think of anything else, 
so pleasant did the contemplation seem to him. 

The poor horse was soon overcome again with the 
excessive rate at which James was driving him. So 
they had to rest again. He sat down to meditate 
upon the great problem which Satan was now keeping 
constantly before him. He was disturbed in his rev- 
erie by the sound of a buggy coming up the road. He 
peered through the cracks of the fence, and his heart 
almost stopped beating. There were Mary Thorn- 
ton and Charles Foster in the buggy. She was talk- 
ing in her most animated style and was sitting with 
her face turned toward Charles, and the rustic glow 
of health in her fair cheek was sparkling with unusual 
beauty. They saw neither James nor his horse. They 
were driving slowly, and seemed to be completely ab- 
sorbed in the topic they were discussing. 


1 1 2 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


Charles Foster was the son of a wealthy planter who 
lived in the South. He had attended the college in 
Roxbury for six years, and had graduated with high 
honors. He had paid Mary some marked attentions 
when he was a student at the college ; but he had been 
away from Roxbury some two years, and most people 
had ceased to connect his name in any way with hers. 
But now all the history of the past flashed on James 
in a moment. His heart sank within him as he 
thought of the possible consequences of that very 
ride. “Perhaps it will all be settled to-day, and the 
sun of my hopes will set never to rise again. And 
it is all because I am so dogged poor and that fellow 
is rich. If I had been rich, I could have won her heart 
and her hand before that fellow came back here. But 
now I am done for. I had just as well go on and plow 
corn and dig potatoes the balance of my life, for life 
will be one long, dull round of duty without Mary. 
It won’t make any difference what I do or where I 
go. But if he doesn’t get her to-day, there will 
be a fighting chance for old Jim Cochran! That’s 
what there will, and I am going to take that fighting 
chance. But I must have that five thousand dollars. 

I can’t fight him without money.” 

Through the remainder of that day and through 
the following three weeks James gave himself to the 
solution of that one problem, how to get Mr. Mur- 
ray’s money without its being suspected that he had it. 
After he had gained the consent of his mind to steal 
it, he took a fiendish delight in studying about it. A 
hundred different plans were suggested to his mind, 
and each of them was properly rejected. The days 
followed each other on weary feet. A week passed 


TEMPTED AND TRIED. H3 

by, and still James was closeted with the tempter, his 
problem unsolved. 

Two weeks more passed by. Charles Foster had 
gone home. And during all these weeks of tempta- 
tion James had not seen Mary. He was ex- 
ceedingly anxious to see her; but he was unwilling 
to go to her house until he had some definite plan 
mapped out, and then he would stake his all in one 
desperate effort to gain her hand and her affection. 
At the close of the third week his plans were perfected. 
He knew he could do it now, and there was no possi- 
bility of even the faintest suspicion resting upon him. 
The time had come for final action, so he went over to 
Col. Thornton’s to make his last great play. 

Col. Thornton was one of those few well-to-do men 
in Roxbury of whom we spoke in the first chapter, 
who lived on the interest of his money, spent his time 
according to his fancy, and delighted himself and 
bored his friends with the interminable story of his 
illustrious ancestry. He lived in a large frame house 
on a high hill west of town. His lawn contained ten 
acres of ground, and was well filled with large oak 
and walnut trees. The greensward in front of 
his house was so perfectly beautiful in the summer 
time as to attract the attention of all who passed by 
it. Within the house all was cozy and comfortable, 
nothing extravagant. Mrs. Thornton was a woman 
of great culture and refinement whose whole life was 
summed up in two individuals, Mary and her father. 
Both parents doted upon their daughter. They had 
given her every advantage which Roxbury could be- 
stow. But they had never allowed her to go away 
from home for anything. At home she had perfect 

3 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


“4 

liberty. She had been accustomed to receive and to 
entertain her own callers from her early childhood. 
The unsuspecting parents never thought of Mary’s 
loving anybody in the world at this time except them- 
selves ; and if they thought of it, they could not have 
been persuaded to believe there was any danger of 
her falling in love with any young man beneath her, 
socially or otherwise. 

If the reader thinks it strange that a ypung lady in 
such a home and with such a degree of refinement as 
that we have just described should receive the atten- 
tions of an ordinary farm hand, we beg leave to re- 
mind him that in Roxbury everybody lived upon a 
common plane. The reader will remember there were 
not the usual distinctions that prevail in the fashion- 
able world, and that there was no distinction there 
between the hard-working boy who was otherwise 
respectable and the finest gentleman that could come 
along, unless it was that the latter was at a discount 
in the presence of the former. For everybody in 
Roxbury had come up from the field of hard toil, and 
they had better sense than many rich people in the 
large cities who have come from the depths of pov- 
erty, but despise all the poor people whom they have 
left behind them. 

When James arrived at the Thornton house this 
evening all was dark. He saw nobody about the front 
porch. He stepped up and rang the door bell. Pres- 
ently he heard the footsteps of some one coming from 
one of the back porches to open the door. The door 
opened, and Mary said : “Why, Mr. Cochran ! you are 
quite a stranger at our house. I am really glad to see 


TEMPTED AND TRIED. 115 

you. Come in and explain the cause of your long 
absence.” 

“Thank you, I shall be very glad to do so.” 

“Have a seat, Mr. Cochran, and take this fan, it is 
so very warm to-night.” 

“Let us walk out under the big trees above the 
spring. It is cool out there, and the moon is shining 
as bright as day,” said James. 

“Wait a moment until I speak to mother about 
it. Please excuse me while I run out to see her.” 

Mary returned, her face wearing the same charm- 
ing expression it possessed that morning when James 
saw her and Charles Foster riding in the buggy. 
They walked out to a rustic seat under a large walnut 
tree, some fifteen feet above the spring. Now it just 
happened that Mr. Murray had sent Gus over to Col. 
Thornton’s that evening with a special message, ask- 
ing the Colonel to call at his store the next morning 
at eight o’clock on important business. The negro 
arrived at the spring a few minutes after the couple 
above him had taken their seats. They did not see 
him nor hear his footsteps over the rocks. He was 
warm and thirsty, and came up to the spring and lay 
down to drink. As he was drinking he heard James 
Cochran’s low, musical voice, and recognized it at 
once. James was saying: “Miss Mary, I have had 
some good fortune since last I saw you. I have 
waited to come to see you until all doubt about it was 
removed, and now that I am fully assured I have come 
to tell you that I am no longer the James Cochran, 
the poor, hired hand whom you have known so long, 
and whom you have so kindly befriended; I am a 
gentleman. My grandmother has recently died 


II 6 A BETRAYED TRUST. 

in Kentucky, and has left me five thousand dollars. 
I am soon to go and get my money, and I thought 
you would be glad to hear of my good fortune.” 

“I am glad, James, to hear of your good fortune ; 
and I sincerely hope that the money may prove a 
blessing and not a curse to you.” 

But she did not seem as glad as James expected 
she would, and there was something in her tone that 
led James to suspect that she did not care as much 
about money as he thought she did. “Thank you,” 
said he. “I knew that you would feel so about it, and 
have hastened to tell you of my secret before I com- 
municated it to my mother. You have been the best 
friend I ever had, Miss Mary. You have encour- 
aged me to do and to be something in the world, 
when it seems to me that everybody else discour- 
ages me.” 

“You flatter me overmuch, Mr. Cochran. It is 
true that I have tried to encourage you in your work 
in behalf of the poor, and to enlist your strong pow- 
ers in a greater endeavor to serve the Lord; but I 
have given you no such stimulus for a pure life, a 
grand and noble manhood, as Mr. Murray has in 
your Sunday school class. He is one of the best of 
men. Surely his reward will be great in the other 
world, and I think that the boys in his Sunday 
school class would be the worst ingrates on earth if 
they did not love and appreciate Mr. Murray and do 
their very best to follow his instructions in all things.” 

Her words almost paralyzed him. His courage 
failed him. He saw his well-laid scheme tumbling 
to pieces at her feet. His conscience was now 
aroused, and it smote him sorely. He trembled un- 


TEMPTED AND TRIED. H7 

der the stinging rebuke of all his methods and plans 
which had been so innocently delivered by the un- 
suspecting girl at his side. For a moment he thought 
of giving up the whole wicked scheme. But what 
would be the result? He must succeed according to 
his previously laid plan or fail entirely. But how 
could he make love to a girl under the embarrassing 
circumstances that had so unexpectedly arisen? His 
tongue faltered, and he stammered through his sen- 
tences. 

“Miss Mary, I have come this evening to ask you 
to allow me to talk to you about a subject that once 
you told me to dismiss from my mind forever. You 
know that I love you tenderly, more dearly than I do 
my own life, and that I never can be happy in this 
world unless you love me in return. I can make you 
comfortable and happy when I get my money, and I 
shall devote the very best energies of my life to being 
and doing what you desire me to be and to do. Will 
you hear me to-night on that subject?” 

“Not to-night, Mr. Cochran. I am not in a senti- 
mental mood to-night, and I cannot promise you that 
I ever will be in that sort of mood; but please, sir, 
if you have any respect whatever for my feelings, do 
not mention that disagreeable subject again to-night. 
Let us talk about the ‘Mercy and Help Brigade/ 
Have you been doing anything under your pledge 
lately?” 

“How can I talk about one subject when my heart 
is full to the bursting of another? Tell me, Mary 
dear, do you love me at all? May I hope that my 
fondest desires may ever be realized? Do not turn 
me away this time. Let my earnestness and honesty 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


Il8 

prevail. Do not trifle with affections so deeply en- 
listed. Tell me, my dear, that you love me, and I 
shall be the happiest man in the world.” 

“James, you know I respect and admire you, and 
that is enough for me to say to-night.” 

“No, no; that isn’t enough. It only excites my 
fears the more. Please answer my question to-night. 
Will you not?” 

“James, I have told you all that I can tell you, un- 
less you wish me to say emphatically that we can 
never be more than friends.” 

“I do not wish you to say that. I pray God you 
may never say that. Will you, then, name a time 
when I may come and receive, my answer? When 
my money corpes, and I am under the first flush of 
joy which it will give, will you then give me a definite 
answer?” 

“I cannot say, James. You know a woman never 
knows her mind a minute beforehand, much less two 
or three weeks ahead. Perhaps I may be in the 
mood to hear you then ; I cannot tell. But I sincere- 
ly hope that no word or action of mine has led you 
to believe that the time will ever come when I can 
hear your story of love with any probability that I 
shall be able to answer you favorably. It hurts me 
to disappoint people; and I should be so glad if you 
would consent to drop this subject and let us be just 
what we have always been — just friends and noth- 
ing more.” 

She spoke so earnestly and with so little evidence 
of mental excitement that there was no mistaking 
her meaning. James felt that his hopes were all in 
vain. The fatal answer had been given, and further 


TEMPTED AND TRIED. 


11 9 

effort was entirely useless. But he caught up the 
words, “Perhaps I may be in the mood to hear you 
then ; I cannot tell,” and his sanguine heart took cour- 
age. So, swallowing down his disappointment, he 
said : “I hope that you will not refuse to hear me 
when I come again, Mary. I want to plead my case 
before you; and then, if you reject me, I shall not 
think that it was a fault of yours, but an imperfec- 
tion of mine that stood in the way. I realize that 
heretofore we have stood on very different social 
planes. I have been exceedingly poor, and you are 
rich, and under those circumstances I could not think 
of urging you to be my wife ; but when I come again 
I shall be on the road to prosperity, and then I think 
that I shall have a right to ask and to be heard ; and 
if you reject me, the matter will be definitely settled.” 

She made no reply to this wily speech. She folded 
her arms and looked straight at the moon as though 
she hoped to find some reply there, for there was 
none now at her command. 

“I think that for the present I have stayed quite 
long enough,” said James. “I shall walk with you 
to the front porch, and then I shall take leave of you 
for to-night.” 

They walked the whole distance in silence. When 
they came to the front steps James took her hand 
in his, and, gently pressing it, said: “Good-night. 
We shall meet again soon, I hope.” 

Mary said, “Good-night, James,” and walked to 
the end of the porch and sat down. Just then Gus 
came along, having delivered his message to the Colo- 
nel at the back door. 

“Gus, is that you?” said Mary. 


120 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


“Y-e-s, ’um ; it's me,” said the negro, grinning and 
rubbing his hands in an embarrassed fashion. 

“I haven’t seen you since the storm, Gus. How is 
Mr. John?” 

“He’s all right, mum.. He is a mighty nice boy, 
Marse John is. He ain’t ’feered o’ nuthin’, and he 
wouldn’t do nobody no du’t ’tall.” 

“Do you know Mr. James Cochran, Gus?” 

“Y-e-s, ’um; I knows ’im.” 

“What kind of a boy is he?” 

“O, I don’t know. I don’t neah talk ’bout white 
folks.” 

“But I think that you ought to consider me one of 
your confidential friends because I came to see you 
during a storm when nobody else would have thought 
of coming, and I think that you ought to tell me what 
kind of a boy Jim Cochran is.” 

“Y-e-s, ’um, you done cum’ to see us ’ca’se you didn’t 
have nowhar’ else to go,” said he, laughing and shuf- 
fling his feet as only a Southern negro can do. “May 
I ax you one question, Miss Mary?” 

“Why, yes, certainly you can; as many as you like, 
Gus. I like for people to ask me questions.” 

“Wuz dat Jim Cochran what wuz talkin’ to you 
under de big trees des’ now as I cum’ ’long?” 

“Yes, it was. What of it, Gus?” 

“O nuthin’, only a po’ fool niggah like I is ain’t 
got no bizness talkin’ to a nice young lady like 
you is about a feller what has got to talkin’ to her 
like that feller was er-talkin’ to you when I cum’ 
’long.” Then he giggled a significant little giggle, 
which Mary understood full well. 


TEMPTED AND TRIED. 


1 2 I 


“Won’t you tell me, Gus, what you think of Mr. 
Cochran ?” 

“N-o, ’um, I don’t think nuthin’ ’tall; I don’t know 
nuthin’ to tell you.” 

“Gus, won’t you promise me that you will never 
tell anybody what you heard Mr. Cochran say to- 
night ?” 

“Yes’m, I ain’t tellin’ nuthin’ any mo’ what I hear 
folks say. I done told Marse John what a little bu’d 
done tol’ me ’bout Mistah Cochran, and he wuz ’bout 
to whup me. I nevah seed him so mad ’bout any- 
thing as he wuz ’bout dat, and I say: ‘Look heah, 
niggah, you got ter keep yo’ mouf shet; somebody 
gwine fur ter kill you fur talkin’ so much wid yo’ 
mouf, some of dese days.’ Sence den I don’t tell 
nuthin’.” 

“Tell me about it, Gus,” pleaded Mary, never once 
suspecting what it was that Gus had told John. 
“Come, I will give you this quarter if you will tell 
me what the little bird told you.” 

The negro’s eyes sparkled as they saw the shining 
coin glistening in her snow-white fingers, and, true 
to the instincts of his race, he could not resist the 
temptation which she presented. 

“Well’um, hit cum’ to my winder one night, and it 
sez, sez’e, ‘Jim Cochran is de biggest hypercrit’ w’at 
ever cum’ to Roxbury. He don’t do nuthin’ ’tall 
Sundays ’ceptin’ walk round wid his Bible under 
his arm and look sanctermonious. Den when night 
cum’ he go round and steal chickens des’ same as 
if he wuz a common niggah.’ Hit sez dat Jim Coch- 
ran and Andy McCulloch and Jack Sears done stol’ 
all ol’ man McClellan’s chickens, and hit sez dat Jim 


122 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


Cochran done tell ol’ man Pryor so many lies he done 
got de or man hoodooed. Dat’s des’ v/hat it sez, Miss 
Mary, perzactly. Ps a-givin’ it ter ye jist like it wuz 
gin ter me.” 

“You don’t believe that, do you, Gus?” 

“Yes’m, I do, ’ca’se Jack and Andy done tell me 
hit’s so.” 

“Well, here is your quarter, Gus. I am very much 
obliged to you for telling me this. Remember, you 
are never to tell anybody what you heard here to- 
night.” 

The negro lifted his hat, and, bowing almost to 
the ground, turned and walked away. Long after 
he had disappeared Mary sat there thinking of the 
little bird’s story. She knew that the negroes had a 
fashion of clothing startling truths in the garb of a 
fable, but this story was absolutely overwhelming. 
She could not believe that James was guilty of that 
sort of knavery. She did not know what to make of 
Gus’s evident distrust of him; but she felt that he 
was being persecuted unjustly, and all her soul went 
out toward him. She had never believed that she 
loved him before, but now she was quite sure that she 
did. She determined that she would let him know 
about this, and that when he vindicated himself from 
these unjust charges she would be his proudest and 
most delighted friend. Yet she was worried and 
troubled at heart. A very small thing sometimes 
casts a very lengthy shadow. And this simple story 
of a poor, ignorant negro had worried not only her; 
it had worried John too, it had cast a shadow over 
three young lives. “What can it all mean?” she said 
as she went to her room, where she retired for the 


TEMPTED AND TRIED. 


123 


night to a restless couch, about which grim and ghost- 
ly figures danced all night long, and told her of hor- 
rors upon top of horrors that awaited her and James 
Cochran. In her dreams she saw James in irons led 
away to prison. Then she confronted him in a court- 
house filled with people, where she was compelled to 
testify against him, and judge and jury seemed de- 
lighted to mete out punishment to him. When she 
awoke from her troubled sleep, she said: “Some dan- 
ger threatens James. He needs the help of a true 
friend. I must do something for him.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


The Die Is Cast. 

Tames was very much dejected after his visit to 
Mary. He had not accomplished what he had hoped 
to do. She was not so much interested in his money- 
getting as he thought she would be. In spite of his 
determined will, a shadow was slowly but surely 
creeping over all his hopes concerning her. He felt 
uneasy and unsettled, too, about the success of his 
great scheme. The tremendous risk never assumed 
such proportions in his mind as it did now. “I fear 
I shall be caught if I do it, but I am undone if I do 
not do it. There is no use for a fellow to grow 
chicken-hearted when he is compelled to do a thing,” 
he repeated over and over again. Thus he felt him- 
self driven on by necessity. Only one thing made 
him hesitate — the fear of being caught. His con- 
science had lost its power over him. If he had a 
single qualm from its pangs, he gave no evidence of 
it. In fact, it may well be doubted whether he had 
any pangs of conscience now. He had gone so far 
in the wrong that conscience was dead in his breast. 
The day wore itself wearily away. The work of the 
farm no longer interested him. He was busy with 
other thoughts. At last his plans were perfected, and 
so often rehearsed that he knew he could not make 
a mistake. “I shall do it to-night,” said he, and pro- 
ceeded at once to work out his plans. 

That evening John was sitting by the little table 

( I2 4) 


THE DIE IS CAST. 1 25 

in the store, when there came a gentle rap at the 
back door. 

“Who’s there?” 

“Jim Cochran.” 

John arose and opened the door, and said: “Hello, 
Jim! I haven’t seen you for a month. Come in, old 
fellow, and give an account of yourself. Why have 
you not been to Sunday school during this month?” 

“I have not been very well, and the work of the 
farm was very heavy for me, so that when Sunday 
came I was nearly fagged out, and I spent the day 
in resting so as to be ready for the next day of slav- 
ish toil.” 

“Have you seen Miss Thornton lately?” 

“Yes, I saw her last night.” 

“How is she?” 

“She is all right. Have you met her yet?” 

“Yes. Didn’t she tell you about it?” 

“No, she never said a word about you to me. When 
did you meet her, and where?” 

“I met her the day of the terrible storm. Gus and 
I took out just in time to reach the tool cabin before 
the great downpour of rain came. As we were go- 
ing in the door we heard somebody coming on a 
horse. We waited a moment, and a woman rode up. 
Jumping off the horse, she said: ‘My name is Mary 
Thornton. May I have shelter in your cabin from 
the storm?’ Of course I took her in. I told her 
that I had heard you speak of her, and that I was 
glad to see her.” 

“What did she say to that ?” 

“I do not remember that she made any reply at 
all. I really think that she did not. She just went 


126 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


on talking in her own sweet way. The lightning 
struck a tree about a hundred yards from the cabin, 
and tore it into shivers from the top clear down to 
the ground. She was scared nearly to death for a 
little while; but she soon got over it, and went on 
to tell me about the band of ‘Mercy and Help’ which 
you and she had formed. She told me how delighted 
you were with your experience in taking the chick- 
ens and eggs to that old colored woman, and how 
you sought out the sick and afflicted among them, giv- 
ing medicine to one and provisions to another, and” — 

“Where had she been that day ?” 

“She had been out on one of her errands of mercy 
to a poor old man and his wife who live back of Mr. 
Murray’s farm.” 

John had told James about the chickens and eggs 
and the colored people in order to study his face and 
see if he could detect any evidence in the expressions 
of his face of the truth of the little bird’s story as 
related by Gus; but James’s sudden interruption threw 
him off his guard, and he forgot all about it. 

“Was there anybody with you and her in the cab- 
in?” asked James. 

“Yes, Gus was there.” 

“Why do you always have that nigger around you ? 
I should think that at such a time as that you’d have 
made him go out in the rain. It wouldn’t hurt a nig- 
ger to stand in the rain while a fellow was talking 
to a pretty girl.” 

“O, I couldn’t do that. He was not in our way. 
We didn’t have any secrets to talk about, as you 
have, and I was very glad to have Gus there.” 

But he did not tell James why he was glad to have 


THE DIE IS CAST. 


127 


Gus there, and James did not ask him why. If he 
had, there would have certainly developed some ex- 
traordinary genius in the way of dodging questions, 
or John would have been greatly embarrassed. 

“Well, say, John, what do you think of her?” 

“She is lovely, the loveliest girl I ever saw.” 

“Aha! you fell in love with her at sight. Just 
what I expected you would do. I suppose that from 
henceforth I am to regard you as my rival rather than 
as my confidential friend?” 

“No, indeed, Jim. You have the older claim and 
all the inside track. I know nothing in the world 
about love affairs. I say that Miss Thornton is a love- 
ly girl ; and if you are successful in winning her heart 
and hand, I shall be the very first one to congratulate 
you on the greatest success of your life.” 

James laughed, and, patting John on the shoulder, 
said: “You are a generous fellow, John, and when I 
get married I shall have you for my best man.” 

“Thank you, sir ; I shall consider it quite an honor.” 

“Say, John, how is your money up there in the cal- 
ico?” 

“It’s all there. Do you want to see it?” 

“Yes, I should like to see it. It rests a fellow’s 
eyes, you know, to see a wad like that once in awhile.” 

They walked around the corner, and John took 
down the roll of brown paper and carefully unrolled 
it, and said: “There it is, $5,000 of it. I haven’t 
stolen a dollar of it yet.” 

“When do you mean to begin on it?” 

“O, never, boy. I was only joking when I said that. 
Nothing in the world could induce me to steal a dol- 
lar of that money.” 


128 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


“You are strictly honest in your own estimation, 
eh?” 

“Yes, I am; and in everybody else’s too, I hope.” 

Then he rolled up the money carefully and put it 
back in its place. He was in front of James; and as 
he turned his back to him in going to his seat James 
marked with a lead pencil which he had carried in his 
hand for that purpose the place on the shelf where 
the money was. 

As they resumed their seats James said: “Say, John, 
this is a regular dog’s life that you live. Out on the 
farm all day long, and then shut up in this miser- 
able old stuffy, smelling store every night! I don’t 
see how you stand it.” 

“It is pretty hard, I sometimes think; but I am get- 
ting paid for it, and that helps me to endure it, you 
know.” 

“But you had just as well be in jail. How would 
you like to stay in jail for pay? I tell you I wouldn’t 
do it for all the money old man Murray’s got.” 

“It is rather confining. If I could only get out 
once in a while and rest a little, I should like it better.” 

“Come and go up with me and stay to-night, and 
get a good night’s rest and plenty of fresh air in 
your lungs. I have a splendid room; and you have 
never been in it, and I have been down here ever so 
often. Come along.” 

“No, I can’t go, James. The worst lashing I have 
ever had in my life I received from my faithful con- 
science for inviting you to stay all night with me that 
night you stayed here, when I had promised Mr. Mur- 
ray so faithfully that I would not do it, and I can’t 
take another risk like that,” 


THE DIE IS CAST. 


I29 


“Ah, pshaw ! You are as chicken-hearted as a 
woman. What does a man want with a conscience, 
anyhow ? Who is it that says : ‘Conscience makes 
cowards of us all?’ What if I did stay all night 
with you? What harm has ever come of it except 
I had the headache for two days for sleeping in this 
foul air ? I wouldn’t stay all night with you again 
for a five-dollar bill. Do you feel disgraced by the 
fact that I stayed with you ?” 

“O no, not disgraced except by breaking my prom- 
ise.” 

“Ah, promises are like pie crust — made to be bro- 
ken. You are entirely too squeamish. It is high 
time you were getting those country ways of yours 
worn off a bit. Come on and go with me. It is ten 
o’clock. Old man Murray is fast asleep, and he will 
never know you are away. There never was a rob- 
ber in Roxbury. The old store can keep itself as well 
without you as with you. Come on and go with me. 
I will guarantee that nothing will happen, and we 
shall have a good time.” 

John tried to beg off, but James would have none 
of it. He took hold of him and pulled him out of 
his chair, and said: “If you don’t go with me, I shall 
think that you are no friend of mine, and that you 
have no confidence in anything I say.” 

John finally consented to go with him, but with 
many misgivings. He stood in the door a long time 
with the key in his hand, debating with himself 
whether he could afford to betray his trust again 
and suffer as he had done before. 

“Ah, quit your foolin’ ! Lock the door and come 
9 


i3° 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


on, boy. It is getting late, and I am sleepy,” said 
James. 

John turned the key in the door, and gave himself 
up, as he felt, into the hands of the devil. The moon 
was shining bright, and the night was almost as light 
as day. As they trudged along over the hills and 
the rocks toward Mr. Pryor’s house they caught a 
glimpse of the Thornton residence through the trees, 
its tall, white form glistening in the moonlight like 
some ghostly phantom of huge proportions. They 
stopped and looked at it. “She is asleep now, I sus- 
pect,” said James. “May guardian angels protect her 
through the night!” 

As they walked on, and talked of love and the 
common idol of their hearts, John forgot the qualms 
of his sensitive conscience, and so far forgot himself 
as to believe that he was really enjoying the walk. 
When they arrived at the house they went up a back 
stairway to James’s room. There were four windows 
in the room, and a cool breeze was blowing through 
them in a most refreshing manner. 

“Didn’t I tell you I had a nice room?” said James. 
“It will do you good to get one night’s sleep up here.” 

“Yes, it is nice; and I feel like I could enjoy it, too.” 

“You get in bed first,” said James; “I have to sleep 
on my right side.” 

John threw off his clothes in a careless fashion, 
and was soon in bed. James arranged his clothes 
very carefully on a chair, put out the light, and got 
in bed. 

“Let us go to sleep as quickly as we can,” said 
James. “I want you to get the full benefit of your 
visit with me.” 


THE DIE IS CAST. 


* 3 * 

“All right/’ said John; and he turned over, and in 
a very few minutes was sound asleep. He was a 
good sleeper, and no ordinary noise ever disturbed 
his slumbers. Had burglars visited the store when 
he was asleep, they would in all probability have 
robbed the store and gone away without waking 
John unless they had dynamited the safe. That 
might have wakened him. 

James listened to his heavy breathing, and thought 
that he was asleep ; but, to make assurance doubly 
sure, he spoke to him, saying: “Are you asleep al- 
ready, John?” There was no answer, and James 
knew that his victim was now absolutely in his pow- 
er. He arose, dressed himself hastily, took the key 
out of John’s pocket, and hurried away to the store. 
He fairly flew over the ground where he and John 
had trudged along so leisurely, and was at the store 
door in less than half of the time that it had taken 
them to walk from it to Mr. Pryor’s. He opened 
the door and walked in. He carefully locked the 
door behind him, struck a match, and lighted the lamp. 
“Now for my money,” said he; and, going round 
behind the counter, he looked eagerly for his pencil 
mark. On seeing it, he put his hand into the calico 
and drew out the money. “All right now,” he said; 
and, stuffing the money down in his pocket, he hur- 
ried around the counter, put the lamp on the little 
table, blew out the light, opened the door, stepped 
on the outside, locked it, put the key in his pocket, 
and hastened on his way back home. He stopped 
just below the big spring on his way, and, stooping 
down, put his hand under a large shelving rock and 
pulled out a neat tin box which he had placed there 


i3 2 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


a week before. Putting his money into the box, he 
carried it to a place which he had previously selected, 
deposited it for the night, went back to his room, 
where John was enjoying a deep, restful sleep, and, 
without disturbing him, put the key into his pocket, 
undressed himself, and went to bed again. 

John arose the next morning before the conch 
shell blew. He was awakened from his sound slum- 
ber by a horrible dream, as if some good angel had 
whispered in his ears some token of the great dan- 
ger that threatened him. Without disturbing James, 
he got out of bed and dressed himself, and fled in 
terror from the place where he had been persuaded 
to go against his judgment and against his conscience. 
He did not go to the store, but went directly to the 
barn and fed his team preparatory to his day’s work. 
At the breakfast table Mr. Murray seemed just as 
cordial and just as jovial as ever. John knew that 
he had not learned of his absence from the store 
during the night, else his reception at breakfast had 
been quite different. Still he was not happy. He 
thought that if he could only hear before he went 
to work that everything was all right at the store 
he would feel better. But he did not have time now 
to go and see for himself, and there was no way 
for him to learn whether everything was all right or 
not. He went to his work on the farm with a heavy 
heart and with many gloomy forebodings of what 
might have happened in the store during his absence. 


CHAPTER X. 


The Net Is Drawn. 

After breakfast John and Gus hurried away as 
rapidly as they could to the plantation. John was 
serious, sullen, and silent. Gus was happy and jubi- 
lant. He talked, he sang, he whistled, he shouted 
a yodel with as distinct enunciation and with as clear, 
ringing a voice as a Swiss mountaineer. The con- 
trast between them was the marked contrast between 
guilt and innocence. The one is always sullen and 
morose ; the other is contented and happy. The 
wealth of Croesus could not make the guilty soul 
happy, and the poverty of Lazarus could not make 
the innocent soul miserable. 

“I say, Marse John, ain’t dis heah a great big 
mawnin’ ?” 

John made no reply. He only clucked to his horse, 
urging him to hurry on to the work. 

“Dis heah is a nne mawnin’; I feel pow’ful good. 
You looks like you’s in de dumps. Is you seen Miss 
Mary lately?” 

“No.” 

“Is you seed her sence de storm?” 

“No.” 

“I’s feered you ain’t gittin’ ’long dar very well. 
Marse Jim I ’spects ’bout to cut you out, ain’t he?” 

John made no reply. He did not even look up: 

“Marse Jim, he ain’t lettin’ no grass grow under 
his feet while he’s arter dat gal. He’s jest a-settin’ 

033 ) 


*34 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


to her, boy; he’s a-doin’ his level best. She’s kinder 
lis’en to ’im too, I b’lieve?” 

The interrogative tone failed to elicit any response. 

“Say, Marse John, is you asleep on dat hoss?” 

“No.” 

“I seed Miss Mary night ’fore las’, and she ax me 
’bout you.” 

“What did she say?” 

“She ax me how you is, and I tol’ her you’s all 
right, you w’an’t feer’d o’ nuthin’, and you wouldn’t 
do nobody no du’t.” 

“What did she say to that ?” 

“She nevah said nuthin’. She axed me what I 
think of Jim Cochran. Eh, mun, dat white gal git 
me in a close place den, ’ca’se I jist hud Jim Cochran 
tellin’ ’er how he love ’er better’n his life.” 

“How did you hear that?” 

“Dey was a-settin’ — he, he, he — up dar under dat 
big walnut tree des’ ’bove de spring. I cum’ ’long 
and lay down fur to git me a drink, and I heah a low 
mumblin’ voice, and I look up, and dar sat Jim Coch- 
ran a-holdin’ Miss Mary’s hand and er-talkin’ love to 
her to beat de band. I lay dar tell I git tired, and 
’den T git up and crope round de hill so as not to 
’sturb ’em. I went up to de house and give Marse 
Thornton de note what Marse Ewin’ sent ’im ; and 
as I cum’ back by de front po’ch dar set Miss Mary, 
and she ax me, she did, what I think of you and 
Jim Cochran.” 

“What did you tell her.” 

“I tol’ her I dunno nuthin’ much ’bout ’im. I tol’ 
’er I done quit tellin’ w’at I know ’bout white folks, 
case you wuz ’bout ter whup me one day fur tellin’ 


THE NET IS DRAWN. 


35 


ye w’at de little bu’d done tol’ me ’bout Jim Cochran. 
And den she sez : ‘Gus, tell me ’bout dat little bu’d 
story.’ She sez: ‘I’ll gin you a quatah ef you’ll tell 
me ’bout hit.” 

“Did you tell her?” 

“Yes, sah ; I done tol’ ’er de whole thing. She hoi’ 
up de money, and I fool er nuff to tell any woman 
what ax me anything I know for a quatah. He, he, 
he, ha, ha, ha.” 

“What did she say?” 

“She des look kinder diserpointed like, and she hoi’ 
out her purty white hand, and sez: ‘Heah’s yo’ qua- 
tah, Gus; I thank ye fur de story.’ Den I jis’ scrope 
my foot and bow to ’er as perlite as I know how, and 
go off down de hill to see my own gal.” 

By this time they had reached the plantation, where 
they were to break up the wheat ground. They dis- 
mounted, and soon had hitched in their horses and 
were silently following their plows; but each of them 
was thinking of what Gus had said on the way. John 
forgot his trouble in thinking about Mary. It 
was a great comfort to him that she had asked about 
him, and he was somewhat glad to know that Gus 
had told her the little bird’s story; for, although it 
had been a great distress to him to hear that story, 
he was glad to know that something had occurred 
which he hoped would cause Mary to hesitate, 
awhile at least, before she accepted James. Person- 
ally he did not want to believe that story, but he 
would gladly have given most any price at his com- 
mand to learn that Mary believed it every word. 

Tames arose with the first blast of the conch shell, 
and was surprised to find that John was up and gone. 


136 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


He dressed himself hurriedly, went out and 
took his money from its hiding place for the night, 
and put it in a safer place for the day. Nobody but 
he knew where it was; nobody but he and God knew 
that he had stolen it. John not only did not know 
it, but he had not so much as a thought of such a 
thing. Yet James was miserable. He had no appe- 
tite for breakfast. He had nothing to say to Mr. 
Pryor. He was so nervous that every unusual sound 
made him start as if some evil beast of prey were 
about to spring upon him. He glanced into Mrs. 
Pryor’s face with an anxious inquiry in his eyes to 
know if she had noticed his nervousness, but he found 
no answer. He hated the money which he had planned 
so long to steal. He knew that he was a traitor to 
every noble impulse which his good father and moth- 
er had instilled within him. At times he wished that 
something might happen to the money during the day, 
and that he might never see it again. But he was 
too much of a coward and too much of a villain to 
take it back and confess his crime. Instead of this, 
he began to plan what he should do and what he 
should say in case he should be suspected and arrest- 
ed. He determined that he would feign ignorance 
of the whole matter; and if John should tell that he 
had shown him the money, he would then endeavor 
to throw the suspicion of the theft upon John. He 
would tell that John said when showing him the 
money: “There it is, every dollar of it. I haven’t 
stolen a dollar of it yet.” Beyond that he would not 
say a word. There were times during that long day 
when he felt a certain exhilaration over his success. 
Now that he had the money, he could go to Mary 


THE NET IS DRAWN. 


137 


Thornton and demand his answer. He believed that 
he could persuade her to accept him. “Nobody knows 
a thing about it, old fellow. You are pretty slick. If 
you only have sense enough to hold your tongue from 
this on, you are all right,” he frequently repeated dur- 
ing the day. 

Mr. Murray felt unusually well that morning, and 
went to the store earlier than was his general cus- 
tom. He went in and opened the doors and win- 
dows, and sat down to read the daily paper which a 
boy brought in with his morning mail. Col. Thorn- 
ton had not found it convenient to go to the store 
on the previous morning in answer to Mr. Murray’s 
note; but this morning he had hurried away from 
breakfast in order to reach the store before any one 
came in, so that he and his friend might have a close, 
confidential chat about a matter of business of mu- 
tual interest to them. Col. Thornton stayed a full 
hour, the business was satisfactorily arranged, and 
he went to his carriage and drove away. After he 
left, Mr. Murray read his mail, then went to his desk 
and made a few entries in his daybook, unlocked the 
safe and examined it, and found everything just as 
he had left it. Mechanically he walked back to the 
calico, not even suspecting anything wrong, and put 
his hand, as his custom was, into the place where 
he expected to touch the roll of brown paper. But 
he did not find it. He had simply thrust his hand 
into the place without looking for the roll of brown 
paper. Now he adjusted his glasses and carefully 
lifted up the goods and looked between each layer, 
but he did not see it. “I wonder if I left that money 
in the safe last night,” said he; and he walked back 


l S* 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


to the safe with an anxious heart and looked closely 
within its sacred inclosure. It was not there. He 
then took down all the goods in the shelf where he 
had hidden it, shook out their folds, and put them 
back in their place. But he could not find his money. 
He looked under the counter, thinking that it might 
have fallen down without his noticing it. But it was 
not there. It was gone. It had been stolen during 
the night. He was for once very much excited. There 
was no one in the store to whom he could speak about 
the affair, and he was heartily glad that there was not. 
He did not enjoy a sensation. He went to the front 
door and called to a negro boy on the street: “Come 
here, Tobe.” 

The boy came at once. 

“You go up to my bam, get a horse, jump on him, 
go out to my farm just as quick as you can, and tell 
John Carey that I want to see him at the store as 
soon as he possibly can get here.” 

“Yes, sah,” said the boy, and started on his errand 
immediately. 

The boy was glad enough to get a ride, and espe- 
cially glad to be sent in a hurry ; so he put the horse 
at full speed most of the way. As he came in sight 
of the tool cabin he met Mary Thornton returning 
from a visit to her dependent friends beyond Mr. 
Murray’s plantation. He reined up his horse, and 
said: “Miss Mary, is you seen Mr. John Carey dis 
mawnin’ ?” 

“Yes, I saw him and Gus plowing in the field yon- 
der,” pointing with her riding whip. “What’s the 
matter, Tobe?” 

“I dunno, mu’m. Mr. Murray tol’ me to go and 


THE NET IS DRAWN. 139 

git John Carey, and bring him to de store in a hurry. 
I got ter go on, too.” 

Mary rode on, wondering what could be the mat- 
ter at the store; but, not supposing that it was a 
matter of serious moment, soon dismissed the sub- 
ject from her mind, and went on planning her work 
for the next day, and thinking what she could take 
to the old people the next time she went to their 
house. 

Tobe rode to a place in the road opposite the boys, 
and called: “Marse John, come to de fence.” 

“What do you want?” was shouted back to him. 

“Marse Ewin’ done sent me out heah to tell you 
to cum’ to de store des’ as quick as you kin git dar; 
dat’s what I want.” 

John unhitched his horse and led him to the road. 
“What is the matter, Tobe?” 

“I dunno, sir. Marse Ewin’ say fur you to hurry 
up and git dar as quick as you could.” 

John thought of the money and of all that had hap- 
pened during the last three weeks. He was fright- 
ened almost out of his senses. He jerked the har- 
ness off the horse, and, turning to Gus, said: “Gus, 
bring them in this evening when you come.” Then, 
jumping on the horse, he said to Tobe: “Let’s go 
now. You keep up with me if you can.” 

The horses’ feet clattered over the road at a fright- 
ful rate. Within twenty minutes they were standing 
at the store door. John dismounted quickly and ran 
into the store. 

“What is the matter, Uncle Ewing?” 

“John, did you sleep in the store last night?” 

“Yes, sir; I did.” This was said with such an ef- 


140 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


fort and with such a stammering hesitation that Mr. 
Murray’s suspicions were all aroused. 

“John, don’t tell me a lie. Did you sleep here last 
night ?” 

“Yes, sir; I did,” said John with more emphasis. 

“Was there anybody in the store with you last 
night ?” 

“No, sir; no one at all.” 

“Well, then, where is my five thousand dollars? 
It is gone, and I must have you arrested unless you 
can account for it in some way.” 

John turned deathly pale. His knees smote togeth- 
er, and in sheer weakness he sank into a chair close 
by. Cold perspiration stood in great beads upon his 
forehead. He could not speak ; he could not move. 

By this time several men had come into the store, 
and were standing around the frightened boy. Among 
them was the constable of the township, to whom Mr. 
Murray spoke: “Arrest him, Jim, and lock him up 
until the mystery is explained.” 

John uttered a deep moan, and rested his head on 
the counter. 

“Come,” said the constable; “get up from here and 
go with me.” 

The poor boy was too weak to rise. The sudden 
fright, the appalling sense of shame which had so sud- 
denly fallen upon him, Mr. Murray’s wrath — all struck 
terror to his very soul. He wanted then and there to 
confess to Mr. Murray that he had lied to him when 
he had told him that he had stayed in the store all 
night, but he could not speak at all.” 

“Come,” said the constable, “no foolin’; get up 
from there and come on.” 


THE NET IS DRAWN. 


H 1 

But he did not move, though the constable was try- 
ing with all of his might to lift him by his right arm. 

“Take hold there, one of you men,” said the con- 
stable to those standing around, “and help me to 
carry him out of here.” 

A strong man stepped up and took John by the 
left arm, and the two lifted him to his feet. As they 
moved forward John glanced at the man on his left, 
and, to his amazement and horror, saw that it was 
Mr. Tate who was helping to drag him along with 
fiendish delight. His heart sank within him, and he 
murmured: “O God, my God, help me, I pray.” 

They led him up the street one block, and turned 
the corner toward the calaboose. As they went along 
the news spread far and wide. Great crowds of men 
and boys, white and black, gathered around them ask- 
ing what was the matter, and Mr. Tate answered 
them: “John Carey has stolen five thousand dollars 
of Mr. Murray’s money, and we are goin’ to lock him 
up in the calaboose until he gives up the money or 
the time comes for his trial.” 

Each bystander took up the story and repeated it 
to each anxious inquirer coming on the ground. John 
could hear the negroes shouting as they ran up the 
street: “Old John Carey done stol’ Mr. Murray’s 
wad!” 

At every repetition of that sentence old Tate laughed 
a great guffaw. It was the best news he had ever 
heard in his life. He knew that the farm was his 
now, and that the time had come of which he had 
prophesied that he would get even with the young 
upstart for saying to his mother : “Old Tate can’t rob 
us as he has done other people in this community.” 


142 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


“All things even up ’bout right, I reckon,” said he, 
as he rubbed his hands together in great glee and 
thought of the opportunity that would now certainly 
come to him to attend John’s trial, and to swear that 
he believed John had it in mind to steal the first 
money he could get his hands on ever since he made 
that promise to his mother. 

They soon came to the calaboose. It had not been 
occupied for a long time. It was a dingy, dirty place, 
foul and loathsome. It was built of heavy oak lum- 
ber, nailed together with large spikes. There were 
two little windows on the sides near the top, with 
iron gratings in them. A heavy door, like the one 
in the back of Mr. Murray’s store, with a strong 
lock upon it, made the prisoner once shut in there 
perfectly secure against any escape. A single bed- 
stead, with an old dirty mattress upon it, occupying 
one corner of the jail, and an old chair, with broken 
back and bottom, sitting in the middle of the floor, 
composed the entire furniture of the place. 

As they thrust John into the door he gave one 
quick look at the crowd, and was surprised to see 
Gus standing as near to the door as he could get, 
with his hands thrust deep down in his pants pock- 
ets, the tears rolling down his dusky cheeks, and his 
strong frame trembling under his deep emotion. 

Poor Gus,” thought John. “If he knew how to 
help me, I am sure he would do it, even at the risk 
of his life.” 

The constable turned the great key in the door, 
and, after giving peremptory orders to the crowd 
to “clear out,” he and the whole party went back to 
the store.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


The Vigilance Committee. 

Never was there such excitement in Roxbury as 
that which followed immediately upon the arrest and 
imprisonment of John Carey. The news spread 
through the village like wildfire upon the prairie. 
Men and boys were seen running to and fro in every 
direction. Now a cluster of men paused on the side- 
walk for a moment, held a whispered conversation, 
and then hurried on to Mr. Murray's store. Here 
and there were small groups of women standing on 
a porch or leaning upon a front gate, talking as 
rapidly as they could, and all of them wrought up to 
the highest pitch of excitement; but all talking in 
whispers. Everybody held Mr. Murray in the highest 
esteem, and there was universal sympathy for him 
because of his loss. But there was in the breasts of 
the men who crowded into his store a feeling deeper 
than sympathy. It was a sense of burning indigna- 
tion that a thief should be found in Roxbury — the 
town was disgraced ; her good name was dishonored. 

Several years before this event the town had formed 
an organization for the suppression of horse-stealing 
known as the “Vigilance Committee.” And it was 
currently reported that no horse thief ever needed 
a trial in the courts after he fell into their hands. So 
terrible was their vengance that no palliation could in 
any way atone for the henious crime of theft, and so 
wholesome was the general fear of them that for ten 

(' 43 ) 


*44 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


years nothing had been stolen in Roxbury or in the 
community round about. 

Mr. Murray recognized at a glance that the crowd 
of men in his store was a mob of very dangerous 
character. There was needed only a word from him, 
and poor John Carey’s lifeless body would dangle 
from a limb of some oak tree. He determined that 
this should not be if he could prevent it. He would 
far rather have lost ten times five thousand dollars 
than to have had that happen. So he climbed upon 
the counter and said : “Gentlemen, I appreciate your 
sympathy and your interest in this unfortunate affair. 
You are my neighbors and my friends of long stand- 
ing. You know that I have lived a quiet life, and I 
know that I have wronged no man. I am getting old 
now. At the best I have only a few more years to live 
in this world, and I do not want any stain to fall upon 
my record this near its close. I should have to regret 
to my dying day if any hasty action of mine should 
wrong the poor boy now languishing in the village 
jail. I sincerely hope that, whatever may be the out- 
come of this unfortunate affair, you will conform 
to my wishes and see that nothing rash or harsh be 
done. Give the boy a fair chance to clear himself. 
I still have a hope that he is innocent, and I am pray- 
ing, if that be so, he may be able to prove it beyond a 
doubt and that the guilty party may yet be found. If 
you are my friends, you will please abstain from all 
violence, at least until all the facts are known.” 

There was profound silence during this address. 
As the speaker was about to descend from the counter 
a strong voice in the crowd was heard to say : “That’s 
right, partner; we’ll stand by you until the facts are 


THE VIGILANCE COMMITTEE. 145 

known; we are just waiting for the facts, but when 
they are all in we’ll see how a thief so base as this one 
must be shall fare in Roxbury.” 

At that moment a wagon was heard rattling over 
the stony street, and the attention of the crowd was 
directed toward it. A man and woman were sitting 
in it. The woman wore a black bonnet which she 
had pulled down over her face to protect it from the 
burning heat of the sun. On her arm she carried a 
basket of eggs which she had brought to market; 
and her husband, who was with her, had brought some 
wheat to the village mill. They drove up to the front 
door of Mr. Murray’s store and stopped. They 
stared a moment at the crowd gathered there, looked 
inquiringly into each other’s faces, and then into the 
faces of the men before them, but said nothing. The 
man helped his wife out of the wagon, and the two 
started into the store, he following close behind her. 
The crowd slowly and silently made a way for her to 
pass up to the counter, where she saw Mr. Murray. 
Not a word was spoken by the men who crowded 
close behind her, and every head was craned forward 
to see and to hear what was said and done. She 
walked up to the counter and held out her hand to 
Mr. Murray. He shook hands with her, and then 
held out his hand to her husband and said : “How are 
you both to-day?” 

“We are very well, thank you,” cheerfully re- 
sponded the woman. “Want to buy any eggs to-day ?” 

“No, madam, no eggs to-day.” 

She set the basket down on the counter and heaved 
a sigh that betokened her great disappointment far 
better than any words could have done, 

10 


146 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


“We came to town to see John, and thought we 
would do a little marketing at the same time/’ she 
said. “John won’t be in before noon, will he?” 

“No, I think not,” answered Mr. Murray. 

“What’s the excitement about to-day? It isn't 
election time, is it?” 

“No, there is no election to-day.” 

“I thought not,” she said. “John would have writ- 
ten to me if there was to have been an election. He 
always writes me everything that happens.” 

She moved about uneasily, feeling for some unac- 
countable reason that she was not a welcome visitor 
just at this particular moment; but, not knowing how 
to get away or where to go, she leaned against some 
goods on the counter and said: “How is John this 
morning? Is he well, Mr. Murray?” 

Mr. Murray answered with hesitation: “Yes, 
madam, I think he is very well; at least he was this 
morning.” 

Mr. Murray’s hesitation, the tones of his voice, and 
the indifferent answers which he gave to her questions 
aroused her suspicions that possibly the excitement 
in the store had some connection with John. She 
could not resist the question that followed: “Mr. 
Murray, you did not answer my question about the 
cause of the present excitement. May I ask if any- 
thing has happened to John?” 

“There has been a robbery here, madam. Somebody 
has stolen five thousand dollars of my money.” 

“O dear ! when did it happen.” 

“Last night.” 

“Was John sleeping in the store at the time?” 

“He says he was.” 


THE VIGILANCE COMMITTEE. 1 47 

“O dear, dear! Please don’t keep me in suspense 
any longer. Did the robbers hurt my dear boy?” 

“O no, my dear woman. I suppose I might as well 
tell you the worst and be done with it. John can give 
no account of the affair at all, and I have had him 
arrested for the theft. He is now in the calaboose.” 

Had Mr. Murray fired a rifle ball through her 
heart, she would not have fallen to the floor more 
quickly. 

“Stand back!” said a gruff voice in the crowd. 
“Here, help carry her out, and get some water. She 
has fainted !” 

They carried her out to the shade of a large tree 
near by, and after a long time she was somewhat 
revived. But she swooned away again as the recol- 
lection of Mr. Murray’s awful words came to her 
consciousness. “She’s goin’ to die of a broken heart,” 
said one of the men bending over her. “Run and get a 
doctor, somebody. Be quick about it, too.” 

The doctor came and gave her a stimulant, which 
he had great trouble in inducing her to swallow. 
After an hour or more he gave her a second dose of 
the same stimulant, and that seemed to revive her. 
Then, sitting up facing the motley crowd that stood 
around her, some of whom had expressions of deep 
pity and sympathy in their faces, others nothing but 
blank curiosity, she said to them : “Gentlemen, a 
grievous mistake has been made. John never stole 
anything in his life. [Old Tate nudged the man stand- 
ing by him, winked at the crowd, and, with a coarse 
laugh, turned and walked away.] Please take me to 
my boy ; let me see him. I know he will tell his mother 
all he knows about this dreadful affair.” 


148 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


Her husband and the constable, who were standing 
near, came and lifted her to her feet ; and with their 
assistance she managed to walk the whole distance 
to the calaboose, the crowd following close behind 
them. She had no idea what a miserable, wretched 
place the village jail was. She was horrified when 
she saw it. There lay John on the vermin-infested 
mattress, in the dirty, dingy, foul place where only 
tramps and negroes had formerly been kept until they 
paid the penalty of a violated law. He had been cry- 
ing, his face was red and his eyes were swollen, the 
dirt from his hands had smirched his cheeks here and 
there, and altogether he was the picture of wretched- 
ness and woe. 

“O mother ! this is more than I can bear.” 

Father and mother both threw their arms about 
his neck, and all three wept as if their hearts would 
break. Just then a wild cry of intense anguish burst 
out on the outside of the calaboose; and Gus, com- 
pletely overcome by the scene on the inside, sank 
down in the open door and sobbed out : “Marse John 
neber stol’ no money. I know he nebeh did.” 

The constable said : “Get up and get away from 
here. This is none of your business. Move, I tell 
you, or I’ll help you to move.” 

Gus got up and sullenly moved to one side of the 
calaboose; and then, taking a huge pistol from under 
his coat, he said : “I’se not gwine ter leave heah to-night 
if Marse John stay in dar; I’se gwine fur to stay 
right heah and watch dis heah place wid my ol’ six- 
shuter, I is ; and if any Vig’lance Committee try fur to 
hang him to-night, dey’s got to hang me fust.” 

After a while John was more composed, and said: 


THE VIGILANCE COMMITTEE. 1 49 

“Mother, don’t cry. I am innocent. God knows I 
am innocent, and he will help me out of this.” 

“I knew it, I knew it all the time, my son ; I knew 
you could not be induced to steal anything under 
any circumstances. Now sit down here and tell me 
all you know about this matter. Don’t leave out a 
single thing.” 

Then father and mother, the constable, and John 
sat down on the filthy bed, oblivious to all their sur- 
roundings, and John told them all he knew. He told 
them about his promises to Mr. Murray the first night 
he stayed in the store; about his inviting James Coch- 
ran to stay all night with him, in violation of his sacred 
pledge to Mr. Murray; that he had gone out to Mr. 
Pryor’s and spent the night with James the night the 
money was stolen ; that he did not know that the 
money had been stolen until he came in from the farm, 
and Mr. Murray told him it was gone. 

“Mother, I have done wrong. I have betrayed a 
solemn trust, and, worst of all, I was so terrified when 
Mr. Murray sent for me that I told him an awful lie. 
I told him that I slept in the store and there was no- 
body in there with me, when James Cochran had been 
there and had stayed a long time and persuaded me 
to go home with him when I did not want to go at 
all. I was such a fool, but I am not a thief, God 
knows I am not a thief; but I suppose, after the lies 
I have told, nobody will believe anything I say. O, 
I wish I had told the truth at first !” 

The constable suggested that, now that the crowd 
was out of the store and the excitement was somewhat 
abated, it would be well for them all to go back to 
the store and let Mr. Murray hear John’s story. So 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


* 5 ° 

the four went back to the store, and there John peni- 
tently made his confession to Mr. Murray, as he had 
done to his mother, with the exception that he told 
him about showing the money to James Cochran. He 
said: “Mr. Murray, I have done a great wrong. In 
addition to betraying the solemn trust you reposed 
in me, I have lied to you. But I was so frightened 
when I came in from the farm I hardly knew what I 
was doing. There is no earthly excuse for my hav- 
ing violated my solemn pledge — I deserve to be pun- 
ished for that, and I am anxious to be punished all 
I deserve, even if it is with death — but I did not steal 
your money, and I have no idea who did.” 

Mr. Murray cried like a child. He told Mr. and 
Mrs. Carey how he and his wife had loved John, what 
perfect confidence they had in him, how cheerfully 
and satisfactorily he had done all his work, and that 
he would not have had his confidence in John shaken 
for five times the amount of the money. But he was 
so confused now he did not know what to do or what 
to believe. After a long consultation it was decided 
that John should not be sent back to the calaboose, 
but be guarded in the store by the constable and some 
others; and that the sheriff, who had come in an 
hour before, should go out to Mr. Pryor’s and arrest 
and bring in James Cochran. 

As Mr. Murray went out of the store he was sur- 
prised to see Gus standing in the shadow of the build- 
ing and clumsily holding some object under his coat. 
He said : “Marse Ewin’, does you keer if I stay down 
heah and set up wid Marse John?” 

“Why do you want to do that, Gus ?” 

“’Ca’se I don’t b’l’eve Marse John ever stol’ any- 


THE VIGILANCE COMMITTEE. 15 1 

body’s money, and I’se pow’ful feard dat Vig’lance 
Committee gwineter try ter hang ’im ; and if dey do, 
I wants to be heah to he’p ’im.” 

Mr. Murray looked at him and smiled, and said: 
“Gus, be careful if you stay down here. Don’t 
get into any trouble if you can help it. If the con- 
stable has no objection to your staying, I have none.” 

The constable was glad to have Gus stay. He be- 
lieved that Gus’s interest in John indicated complicity 
in the robbery, and he thought that by keeping the 
two together he might be able to find out something 
about the great mystery that had not as yet come to 
light. 

Mr. and Mrs. Carey went home with Mr. Murray, 
and the constable called in two additional guards be- 
sides Gus to stay with him during the night. 

The store was a much better place to spend the night 
than the calaboose ; but alas ! it gave no especial com- 
fort to John. There was no comfort for him any- 
where. The disgrace of his arrest was ever before 
him. And ,the awful sorrow it had brought to his 
mother almost broke his heart. He did not sleep a 
single moment all the night through. And frequently 
he was heard to murmur : “O, my dear mother ! This 
will kill her.” 

It was well for him that he did not know that his 
mother had fainted that evening when she first heard 
that he was charged with theft. And, better still at 
this moment of his great anxiety concerning her, that 
he did not know that after leaving him she fainted 
again and again, and was now lying at Mr. Murray’s 
house under the quieting influence of an anaesthetic 
administered by the village doctor; and that in her 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


* 5 2 

semiconscious moments she was moaning: “O, my 
poor boy! My own dear John! God knows he is 
innocent; why can’t other people know it too?” She 
had rallied while in John’s presence for his sake; but 
when she heard him repeat to Mr. Murray the story 
which he had told her in the calaboose, and put in the 
additional statement that he had shown James Coch- 
ran the money, and that they had counted it together, 
her heart sunk within her. All her fears were 
aroused, though her faith in John was not shaken. 
Her womanly intuition told her that that latter clause 
of John’s confession was a very suspicious circum- 
stance against him, and she feared that her boy’s in- 
discretion had made him a victim of circumstances 
from which there was no escape. She could not bear 
the thought of it, and her whole nervous system col- 
lapsed under the tremendous burden. Talk not of 
grief until you have seen a mother’s anguish over a 
living disgrace! 

In the meantime the sheriff had been out to Mr. 
Pryor’s and had arrested James Cochran. Notwith- 
standing the great excitement in the village, Mr. 
Pryor had not met any one from town that day, and 
had heard nothing of what had happened. He 
was greatly surprised and shocked when the sheriff 
laid his hands upon his trusted farm hand. James 
also feigned great surprise and indignation that any- 
body should think of arresting him. He stoutly pro- 
tested his innocence when the sheriff told him what 
he was arrested for. He declared that he knew noth- 
ing about the matter. He appealed to Mr. Pryor to 
protect him against the unjust insinuations of the 
sheriff. But the sheriff would hear no argument of 


THE VIGILANCE COMMITTEE. 153 

that sort. He explained to Mr. Pryor that the war- 
rant in his hands called for the body of James Coch- 
ran, and that he must be taken ; and that the question 
of James’s innocence or guilt must be determined by 
the courts, and not by either Mr. Pryor or himself. 
He ordered James to move along. 

Mr. Pryor went with James and the sheriff. He 
was very indignant at the unjust treatment of his in- 
nocent boy, and he secretly planned a process of re- 
taliation that would not only set James right before 
the world, but one that would force the Careys, Mr. 
Murray, and everybody else connected either directly 
or indirectly with James’s arrest and disgrace to pay 
heavy damages in the courts for this terrible out- 
rage upon a helpless boy. 

The sheriff took them to the store. A messenger 
was sent up to the house to notify Mr. Murray that 
James Cochran was waiting to see him at the store. 
He returned with the messenger. When he entered 
the store the sheriff locked the door to keep out the 
curious crowd waiting about the door to hear any- 
thing new that might develop. Mr. Murray took a 
chair and sat down by James. 

“James,” said he, “I have known you all your life. 
I have known your father since he was a small boy. 
He has always been my friend. I have done him 
many favors. I am extremely sorry to see you in 
this trouble. There is only one safe course before 
you, and that is tell the truth, nothing but the truth.” 

“Yes, sir; I will,” said James. 

“Did you ever stay all night here in the store with 
John?” 

“Yes, sir; I did.” 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


*54 


“Please tell me when it was, and. what you and 
John did that night.” 

“It was about six weeks ago, I think. We studied 
the Sunday school lesson together.” 

“Did John show you any money hidden in the 
calico yonder that night?” 

“No, sir; he did not.” 

“Were you ever in the store at night at any other 
time ?” 

“Yes, sir; I was here a little while last night, and 
John went home with me and stayed part of the night. 
I did not know when he got up nor when he left.” 

“Aha,” said Mr. Pryor. 

“Do you know where he went after he left your 
house ?” 

“No, sir; I do not. This is the first time I have 
seen him since we went to bed.” 

“Did John show you the money in the calico last 
night ?” 

“No, sir; he did not, and I did not know before 
that there was any money in calico. I had always 
thought there was not.” This was said with a chuckle 
at the wit in his play upon words. 

James seemed so candid, so calm and self-possessed, 
that Mr. Murray could hardly doubt his words. Mr. 
Pryor, after having heard the interview, was more 
certain of James’s innocence than he had been before. 
He demanded his release. Mr. Murray was willing 
to grant it, but the sheriff said: “No, he cannot be 
released now until the court declares him not guilty.” 
Whereupon Mr. Pryor, in high dudgeon, left the store 
and went home. 

Mr. Murray went back to his house to spend a sleep- 


THE VIGILANCE COMMITTEE. 1 55 

less night, more worried about the profound mystery 
in the case and the great sorrow of John’s parents 
than about the loss of his money. 

James and John were kept in the store under the 
vigilant eye of the guard until the morning. The 
morning dawned bright and fair, as if the destiny of 
two young men did not in any way depend upon the 
issues of that day. Mr. Murray had all the men at 
the store at his house for breakfast. John could not 
eat, but James ate a very hearty breakfast — a fact 
which caused many conflicting conjectures by those 
present. 

Early in the morning crowds of people began to 
gather round the store, where it was generally under- 
stood the preliminary trial was to be held. The news 
had spread into the adjoining country, and men and 
women and children began to pour into the village 
from every direction. It was noted by many that the 
old captain of the Vigilance Committee was on hand, 
and that nearly, if not quite all, of the surviving mem- 
bers of the committee were also present. Old Tate 
shrugged his shoulders with delight when he saw 
them, and ran around through the crowd, saying in 
whispers to his friends : “We are going to have a 
necktie party in Roxbury ’fore night.” 

There was that general noise and confusion which 
characterizes a crowd swayed by great excitement, 
but who are somewhat restrained by the feeling that 
the time for the greatest demonstration has not yet 
arrived. There was also that other marked charac- 
teristic of such a gathering— the great number of men 
and boys apparently indifferent to the cause that 
brought the crowd together, who appeared to be there 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


* 5 6 

simply to meet their friends and to have a good time, 
but in reality were there for the determined purpose 
to aid in any popular movement that involved human 
life whereby the excitement of the occasion might be 
increased. It was rumored that the trial was not to 
begin until ten o’clock, but before eight all the avail- 
able space around the store was occupied by buggies, 
wagons, horses, and mules. 

About this time there came into the crowd a man 
and a woman in a buggy. The man looked worried 
and nervous. The woman was weeping violently, 
and was saying to the crowd hysterically : “Please, 
gentlemen, don’t be hasty with my poor boy !” 

“Jim Cochran’s father and mother,” said the cap- 
tain of the Vigilance Committee; “let them pass 
there.” 

The crowd gave way at the word of the captain, 
and Mr. Cochran drove through to Mr. Murray’s 
house, and he and his wife got out of the buggy and 
went in. Mr. Murray greeted them cordially, where- 
upon they began to cry and to protest vehemently 
that they knew James could not be guilty of the theft. 
They pleaded with Mr. Murray to use his influence to 
keep the people quiet, and to do his best to prevent 
the Vigilance Committee from taking up the case 
and disposing of it before the evidence could be 
brought out. 

Mr. Murray assured them that he would do his best 
to prevent such a catastrophe. They were finally 
quieted, and all began to get ready to go down to the 
store to the trial. 


CHAPTER XII. 

The Preliminary Trial. 

The trial of John Carey and James Cochran was 
an event of all-absorbing interest in Roxbury. All 
other business in the village was entirely suspended 
during the trial. Even the post office and the doc- 
tor’s office were dosed, and the postmaster and the 
doctor were to be found at the trial, interested listen- 
ers to all the testimony. 

In the beginning of the trial there were no lawyers 
except the young, inexperienced assistant prosecuting 
attorney, Ryan Walker. 

Zeb Curtis was the justice of the peace. He was 
a man of sterling integrity, of righteous intentions, 
and of honest and sincere purposes in life; but his 
knowledge of the law was exceedingly limited, and 
his experience in the courts very meager. His neigh- 
bors all knew this; and when he made a ruling in 
direct violation of the law, they said: “Zeb means all 
right, but he is not very well posted in the law.” 
When he transcended all authority in his decisions, 
they said : “Zeb got a little off again to-day, but not 
intentionally. He ain’t well up in the practice of the 
courts.” In the case now pending his sympathies 
were all with James Cochran. He knew little of 
John, but James was the tenor singer in his choir. 
He was his musical protege, and he never tired of 
talking of the excellent qualities of his voice and the 
finer qualities of his character. 


057 ) 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


x 5 8 

The trial was held in Mr. Murray’s store, primarily 
because the village had no city hall or courthouse, 
but secondarily because it was customary in Rox- 
bury to hold the sessions of the criminal court as 
near as possible to the spot where the crime was com- 
mited. 

It was agreed that the justice should occupy a seat 
upon the counter, and that the witnesses should sit 
in a chair to the right of his table, so that all might 
see and hear what was said and done. 

After many private consultations with the prose- 
cuting attorney, and the arrangement in detail of all 
the little things necessary for the comfort of those 
actively engaged in the work, the justice took his seat 
on the counter, and said: “Mr. Constable, you may 
call the court to order.” 

That officer walked to the front door and cried out 
in a stentorian voice : “Oyez ! Oyez ! Oyez ! the hon- 
orable justice’s court of Roxbury Township is now 
in session. Come into court.” 

The men and the boys on the outside made a great 
rush for the door. They ran over each other in their 
eagerness to get the best places, and the jargon and 
confusion which followed beggars description. 

The constable jumped upon the counter beside the 
justice, and shouted: “Silence in the court room, or 
I shall put you every one out of doors !” 

Instantly there was a great calm, and the whole 
crowd stood in breathless silence waiting for the long- 
expected trial to begin. 

Ryan Walker slowly arose from his seat, where he 
had been for quite a while buried in the study of the 
statutes, stretched himself lazily, carefully rearranged 


THE PRELIMINARY TRIAL. 1 59 

his cuffs and his necktie, and in silence looked into 
the eyes of the court. All eyes were fixed upon him. 
Slowly, deliberately he began to speak: "If the court 
please, this is a case of the State versus John Carey 
and James Cochran, charged with grand larceny. The 
State charges that John Carey, the trusted employee 
of Ewing Murray, while in the discharge of the regu- 
lar duties which his employer had assigned him, did 
invite one James Cochran to spend the night with 
him in the said Ewing Murray’s store, which was 
the bedroom of the said John Carey; and that during 
the night the said John Carey did violate his sacred 
trust and show to the said James Cochran five thou- 
sand dollars in cash, hidden in the calico for fear rob- 
bers might break in and rifle the safe; and that the 
said John Carey and James Cochran, on the night of 
the 16th of July, 1880, did take and appropriate to 
their own use, in an unlawful manner, the said five 
thousand dollars belonging to Ewing Murray.” 

His statement being finished, he dropped languidly 
into his chair. The crowd in the store began a low, 
murmuring conversation, and the constable again 
called them to order. 

The justice said: “John, who is your lawyer? who 
will answer for you?” 

"I did not know that I was expected to have a 
lawyer. I never was in court before, and I did not 
know that I was entitled to a lawyer if I wanted one, 
and I do not know where to find one now.” 

"Who is your lawyer, James?” 

"Your honor,” said James, "I do not think that 1 
need a lawyer. I am so thoroughly conscious of be- 
ing innocent of these charges that it does not seem 


160 A BETRAYED TRUST. 

to me that any court in the world could think of con- 
victing me, and especially this court, whom I have 
known so long and so favorably.” 

“By George, that thar’s a purty good speech fur a 
sucker like Jim, hain’t it?” said a voice in the crowd. 

“Silence in the court room!” shouted the justice. 

“What do you say, John? guilty or not guilty?” 
said the justice. 

“I am not guilty,” said the boy. 

“Mr. Prosecuting Attorney, you will proceed with 
the witnesses.” 

“If your honor please, I should like to have Mr. 
Murray sworn.” 

Mr. Murray, with some difficulty, climbed upon the 
counter and took the witness chair. The justice ad- 
ministered the oath, and the examination proceeded 
as follows: 

“What is your name?” 

“My name is Ewing Murray.” 

“Where do you live ?” 

“I live here in Roxbury.” 

“Please state your age and occupation.” 

“I am about seventy years of age, and I am a farm- 
er and a merchant.” 

Mr. Murray, you will please tell the court the whole 
story of your connection with John Carey, beginning 
at the time when you first engaged him to work for 
you.” 

Mr. Murray recited in detail and with peculiar 
pathos the whole story of John’s coming to his house; 
of his ultimately employing him, and his reasons for 
so doing as related in our first chapter. He told how 
apt and clever John had been, of how he and his wife 


THE PRELIMINARY TRIAL. l6l 

had learned to love him, of his absolute confidence in 
his integrity, of the promises exacted the first night 
John slept in the store, and of his utter astonishment 
when he heard that he had violated his solemn prom- 
ises. 

“Base scoundrel!” interjected old Tate. 

The Court mopped his brow, and was on the point 
of saying something to John when the prosecuting 
attorney interrupted by saying: “Mr. Murray, you 
will please tell the Court how you discovered that 
your money was gone.” 

“Yesterday morning I came to the store earlier 
than usual. I read my paper for a while; then a boy 
brought in my mail, and I looked over that. About 
that time Mr. Thornton came in, and we talked for 
some time about matters of business ; and after he left 
I went to the desk and made a few entries in my 
daybook, which I had forgotten to put in the safe the 
night before; then I opened the safe, and found ev- 
erything in it just as I had left it. I then walked 
back to the calico and put my hand up to the place 
where I thought the money was, but I could not find 
it. I took the goods all out of the shelf and looked 
carefully through them, but it was not there. I went 
to the door and called a little colored boy whom I 
saw playing in the street, and sent him out to the 
farm to tell John Carey to come to the store as soon 
as he could. When he came he looked very much 
excited, and asked me what was the matter. I said: 
‘John, did you sleep in the store last night?' He re- 
plied in a very stammering manner: ‘Yes, sir; I did.' 
My suspicions were aroused by his appearance and 
the manner in which he answered me, and I said: 


ii 


62 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


‘John, don’t tell me a lie; were you in the store last 
night?’ He said in a clearer voice and with more 
emphasis: ‘Yes, sir; I was.’ I then asked: ‘Was 
there anybody in here with you?’ He said: ‘No, 
nobody at all.’ I said: ‘Where is my fi\ie thousand 
dollars? It has been stolen, and I must have you 
arrested for stealing it.’ He sank down in a chair 
there by the counter, and did not say a word. The 
constable came in about that time, and I told him to 
arrest him and lock him up until the mystery could 
be solved. The constable took him to the calaboose, 
and in a short while after the constable’s return to 
the store John’s father and mother came in. They 
went down to the calaboose to see him; and he told 
them in the presence of the constable that he had in- 
vited James Gochran to stay all night with him some 
weeks previous, that he had gone out home with 
James the night the money was stolen, and that he 
had lied to me in the store when I asked him about 
these things. The constable brought him up here, 
and he confessed to me that he had lied to me when 
he came in from the farm. He told me that he had 
invited James to spend the night with him, that he 
had shown James the money, and that they had 
counted it together. He told me that he had gone 
home with James the night the money was stolen, 
but that he had not stolen a dollar of it, and that 
he did not know who the thief was. We sent out 
to Mr. Pryor’s for James Cochran. He came in, 
and seemed very much unconcerned about the matter. 
He admitted that he had stayed all night with John 
in the store, but denied that John had shown him 
the money, and declared that he did not know there 


THE PRELIMINARY TRIAL. 1 63 

was any money there. I believe, sir, that I have told 
you all the facts as far as I know them.” 

“You may stand aside, Mr. Murray,” said the at- 
torney. 

“Your honor, I should like to have Mr. William 
Tate sworn.” 

Mr. Tate mounted the witness stand, and was duly 
sworn. 

“What is your name, and where do you live?” 

“My name is William Tate, and I live in the south- 
east corner of this here county, b’yont the mountains.” 

“Do you know these defendants, John Carey and 
James Cochran?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You will please tell the Court what you know 
about this case.” 

“I cain’t say that I know anything ’tall ’bout the 
stealin’, but I know sum’thin’ that p’rhaps led to it.” 

“Well, sir, tell that then.” 

“’Bout two year ago, I think it wuz, I loant Jim 
Carey — this here boy’s father — five hundred dollars. 
He gin me a mortgage on his farm to secure the 
loan. He spent the money in a mining speculation, 
and then he jist set around hum’ and brooded over 
his loss and never tried to do nuthin’. I saw he 
wuz never goin’ to be able fur to pay me my money ; 
and, as the fust six months’ int’rust was due, I went 
over thar’ one night to ax him about hit. As I cum’ 
up the road thar’ by the spring I heard a man and 
woman talking somew'har’ near. I listened, and soon 
I crope up as close to ’em as I dared to without at- 
tracting thar’ notice, and I saw John Carey and his 
mother settin’ thar’ on the ground. She wuz a-cryin’, 


164 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


and he wuz a tryin’ fur to comfort her. He said: 
‘Mother, don’t cry. Old Tate shall never have our 
place. I’ll see to it. He shan’t rob us like he has 
other folks in this neighborhood. If I cain’t do it 
any other way, I’ll go out and steal the money ’fore 
he shall have the place.’ ” 

“That will do, Mr. Tate. You may stand aside.” 

The justice arose and said: “Gentlemen, I see no 
further use of prolonging this trial. John Carey has 
acknowledged that he lied to Mr. Murray. He has 
confessed that he asked Jim Cochran to stay all night 
with him, and that they counted the money together. 
Jim Cochran says that he did not do it. It seems to 
me a plain case that John Carey has that money.” 

“That’s right, pardner,” shouted a man who looked 
the personification of a highway robber. “Thar’ ain’t 
no use a-foolin’ round here all day. Git out the rope 
and settle the case right.” 

Capt. Clark, the captain o»f the Vigilance Commit- 
tee arose, and all the crowd craned their necks to 
hear him give the order for immediate action. “If 
your honor please,” said the Captain, “there is al- 
ways two sides to every case. We have heard only 
one side. Let us not be in a hurry. And, if you 
will permit me, sir, I will act the part of counsel for 
the defendant, John Carey. I am a licensed lawyer; 
and, thinking that perhaps your honor did not know 
that, I brought my parchments along, and I ask leave 
to present them to you as evidence that I have a right 
to practice in this court.” 

He handed the astonished judge his license. A 
murmur of surprise more than of disappointment ran 
through the crowd in the court room. An awkward 


THE PRELIMINARY TRIAL. 1 65 

pause in the proceedings followed. The judge did 
not know what to do. He turned imploringly toward 
the prosecuting attorney, who, reading the inquiry in 
his countenance, said: “Yes, that is right, Judge; pro- 
ceed with the case. Let us patiently hear it all.” 

“Captain, your papers are all right, so far as I am 
able to judge,” said the justice; “and I know of no 
reason why you should not proceed as the counsel for 
the defense, if you desire.” 

Everybody was dumfounded at the sudden turn of 
affairs. It was generally conceded that Capt. Clark 
would stand for as short and decisive a trial as pos- 
sible, and that he would be in favor of the severest 
punishment, summarily dispensed. “What had come 
over him ?” was plainly written on every face in the 
wild mob before him. They did not know that Capt. 
Clark had known John Carey’s mother when she was 
a girl in Alabama. They did not know that an un- 
fortunate lovers’ quarrel between them had set the 
Captain adrift ; and that during all these years he had 
roamed about in an aimless, hopeless sort of a life, 
with a kind of desperate feeling continually gnawing 
away at his heart, and making him appear to those 
who thought they knew him a hard-hearted, cruel 
man, the very opposite of what he really was. All 
of his better nature came back to him as he looked 
into the troubled face of the woman whom he had 
loved so devotedly. How she had changed! yet he 
knew her. She did not recognize him because he had 
changed more than she. It never once occurred to 
her during the trial that he was the Clark whom she 
had known so well in Alabama. 

“This is my opportunity to atone somewhat for a 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


1 66 

reckless, sinful life,” thought he. “If I can save her 
boy, I shall not have lived entirely in vain.” He 
straightened himself up to his full height, and said: 
“I thank you, Judge, for your kindness. Mr. Walk- 
er, I beg your pardon for the interruption. You may 
proceed with the witness now.” 

“Go on, then, Mr. Tate,” said the prosecutor. 

“Wall, I happened to come to town the day Mr. 
Murray discovered that his money had been stolen; 
and I was in tine store when he accused John Carey 
of taking it, and he jist dropped down thar’ in his 
cheer and never said a word, and in my jedgment 
that wuz a dead give away.” 

“Never mind about your judgment, Mr. Tate; just 
tell what you know. If your honor please, I ask 
that that last clause of Mr. Tate’s testimony be strick- 
en out,” said the Captain. 

“Well, I don’t know, Captain, that it makes any 
difference; he was just telling what he thought,” said 
the Court. 

“The witness, your honor, is not sworn to tell what 
he thinks, but what he knows to be the truth, and 
nothing else,” replied the Captain. 

“I think/ said Mr. Walker, “that the gentleman is 
disposed to be overcaptious for one coming into the 
trial at so late an hour. Nevertheless, I do not con- 
sider the statement vital to the case ; and, for the sake 
of the Captain’s tender conscience, let it be stricken 
out.” 

“It is so ordered,” said the judge. “Proceed, gen- 
tlemen, with the examination.” 

“Anything further, Mr. Tate?” asked the prose- 
cutor. 


THE PRELIMINARY TRIAL. 167 

“Wall, Mr. Murray axed the constable to arrest 
him and to take him to the calaboose; and he wuz 
that skeer’d or guilty or sum’in’ or uther he couldn’t 
walk a step, and the constable and me had fur to 
tote him all the way.” 

“You may take the witness, Captain.” 

“Mr. Tate, you said that you let Mr. James Carey 
have five hundred dollars in money. What rate of 
interest did you charge Mr. Carey for that money?” 

Mr. Tate hesitated. He did not want to answer 
the question. 

“Answer the question, sir !” said the Captain sharp- 

iy- 

“Wall, I bTeve it was one per cent per month.” 

“Is that not a higher rate of interest than the State 
allows you to charge?” 

“Wall, I don’t know but what it is,” said Mr. Tate, 
fidgeting around in his chair, showing that he was 
worried and disconcerted by the Captain’s question; 
“but if a feller is a mind ter pay it, whose business 
is it?” 

“You said that the night you heard this conversa- 
tion between John Carey and his mother you were 
going over to Mr. Carey’s to see him about the pay- 
ment of your first six months’ interest. Did you col- 
lect your interest that night?” 

“No, sir; I did not see Mr. Carey that night. When 
John and his mother saw me, they jumped up and 
run to the house ; and I thought mebbe I’d better go 
back hum’ and come over the next day, ’ca’se the ol’ 
man was a little off anyway.” 

“Did you go over the next day ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


1 68 

“Did you collect your interest that day?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“In what did Mr. Carey pay you?” 

The witness was silent. He looked down at the 
floor, and then appealed to the prosecuting attorney. 

“I object to that question,” said the prosecutor; “it 
is wholly irrelevant.” 

“The objection is sustained,” said the Court. 

“If your honor please, you seem to have made up 
your mind before you hear the evidence in this case. 
I mean to show a direct connection between the an- 
swer to this question and the testimony Mr. Tate 
has given. I have a right to ask this question on 
cross-examination, and the witness must answer it; 
and if you do not rescind that unjust ruling, I shall 
present your name to the next grand jury,” said the 
Captain. 

“Well, Captain, I was too hasty. I beg your par- 
don. The Court wants to be fair. Answer the ques- 
tion, Mr. Tate.” 

“In what did. Mr. Carey pay you?” 

“He gin me an ol’ hoss and a cow fur the intrust 
then due.” 

“How much was the interest?” 

“Thirty dollars, I bTeve, sir; yes, it wuz jist thirty 
dollars.” 

“Did you not sell me that horse for fifty dollars?” 
asked the Captain. 

“I object; that is an immaterial question,” said the 
prosecutor. 

The judge looked into the eyes of the Captain, and 
thought it best not to sustain the objection. “Answer 
the question, Mr. Tate. We want all the facts brought 


THE PRELIMINARY TRIAL. 1 69 

out in this case, though the Court confesses he cannot 
see the relevancy of all this/’ 

“Yes, sir; I sold him to you for fifty dollars.” 

“What did you do with the cow?” 

“I sold her too.” 

“How much did you get for the cow?” 

“I got thirty-five dollars, but I don’t see as that’s any 
of your business.” 

“So that was eighty-five dollars you got for that 
interest. Did Mr. Carey object to giving the horse 
and the cow?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“What did he say?” 

“I don’t recollect what he said.” 

Mr. Carey whispered in the Captain’s ear. 

“Did he say anything about his children starving if 
you took the cow ?” 

“I b’l’eve he said som’in’ or other like that.” 

“And yet you took the horse, knowing that it was 
worth fifty dollars, and demanded the cow in addi- 
tion, although Mr. Carey’s little children should starve 
as the result of your extortion?” 

“It is none of my business to take care of the Carey 
children,” said Mr. Tate angrily. 

“Did you not tell Mr. Carey that if he did not give 
up the cow too you would foreclose the mortgage ?” 

“Yes, I did.” 

After another whispered conversation with his cli- 
ents, the Captain asked: “What did you say, Mr. 
Tate, as you rode away driving the cow before you?” 

“I don’t recollect what I said.” 

“You said, Mr. Tate, that you heard John Carey 
tell his mother that he would pay off that mortgage 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


170 

if he had to steal the money to do it. Are you sure 
that John used those very words?” 

“Wall, as well as I can remember that’s what he 
said.” 

“Are you positive that he used those words?” 

“Wall, no; I’m not so positive that he used them 
very words, but that wuz the impression he made on 
my mind.” 

“That’s all.” 

“You may stand aside, Mr. Tate,” said the prose- 
cutor. 

“Call the next witness,” said the justice. 

“I wish to put John Carey on the stand, if you 
please, sir. But I notify him that he does not have 
to testify unless he wishes to. It’s for him to de- 
cide.” 

John looked at Capt. Clark, who bowed to him, 
and moved to the stand and was sworn. As he sat 
down in the witness chair everybody noticed how pale 
and haggard he looked. His loss of sleep, his long 
abstinence, and the great nervous strain to which he 
had been subjected were telling on his strong consti- 
tution. In answer to the questions of the prosecutor 
he went over the whole story related by Mr. Murray, 
and corroborated everything that Mr. Murray had 
sworn to. He told about his first night in the store, and 
his solemn pledge to Mr. Murray not to ask any one to 
stay there with him, and his base betrayal of that sa- 
cred trust in asking James to stay with him. He told 
about showing James the money, and the conversa- 
tion between them concerning it. He told about 
James’s last visit to the store, and his showing him 
the money, and that they counted it together; t!hat 


THE PRELIMINARY TRIAL. 171 

he said to James, “There it is, $5,000 of it. I haven’t 
stolen a dollar of it yet;” that James asked him when 
he was going to begin on it, and that he told him 
never; that he would not steal a dollar of it for any 
consideration. He told about coming in from the 
farm, and the awful lie that he had told, Mr. Murray 
in the store; but declared that he did not take the 
money, and that he did not have any idea who did 
take it. 

* '‘Why did you tell Mr. Murray a lie when he asked 
you if you had stayed in the store?” 

“I really do not know why I did it. I was so scared 
that I hardly knew what I was doing.” 

“What scared you?” 

“Why, I was afraid that something had happened 
in the store while I was away that night.” 

“Why did you not confess to Mr. Murray that you 
had lied before they took you to the calaboose ?” 

“I could not speak. I was so overcome by the 
dreadful thing that had fallen upon me that I seemed 
to have lost my senses as well as the power of speech.” 

“Take the witness, Captain.” 

“Do you remember what Mr. Tate said the day that 
he drove off your father’s cow?” 

“No, sir; I did not hear him say anything.” 

John was excused, and James Cochran was called 
to the stand. He testified to staying all night with 
John in the store, but denied that John showed him 
the money or that he ever said anything to him about 
it. He declared that he did not know that there was 
any money there. He stressed the fact that they had 
studied the Sunday school lesson together. He said 
that the night John went home with him they went 


I 7 2 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


right to bed as soon as they got there, and that John 
got up in the night and went away, he did not know 
where, and that he had not seen him until his arrest. 
He intimated very strongly that it was his opinion that 
John went to the store and got the money while he 
(James) was asleep, and that John’s story about show- 
ing him the money was made up to incriminate him 
and to shield himself. (The lawyers had quite a de- 
bate about allowing this to go in as testimony; but 
the judge overruled the Captain’s objection, and 'it 
went in.) 

Capt. Clark was very severe in his cross-examina- 
tion, but he could not bring out a single new point 
or force James to the admission of a single thing that 
would be damaging to his case. Finding that he 
could do nothing further at that time, he asked the 
Court to please adjourn until eight o’clock the next 
morning. 

The prosecutor objected. 

After some little sparring between them, Capt. Clark 
said : “If the Court please, there is a colored boy here, 
named Gus, with whom the constable has had quite 
a lengthy conversation. He tells me that the boy 
knows something vital to this case. I have not had 
an opportunity to talk with him. And I understand 
that it will be necessary for me to take him out from 
town some distance to verify some things that he tells, 
and I ask the Court to adjourn and give me time to 
present my client’s side of the case as favorably as 
I can.” 

“Very well, Captain,” said the judge; “we will ad- 
journ until eight o’clock to-morrow morning. Mr. 
Constable, declare the court adjourned.” And the 


THE PRELIMINARY TRIAL. 


m 


crowd, so long silent, began a regular stampede to- 
ward the door and rushed by the constable, who was 
standing in the door crying: “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! the 
honorable justice’s court of Roxbury Township is now 
adjourned until to-morrow morning at eight o’clock.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


The Trial Continued. 

The court met promptly at the time appointed, but 
the prosecuting attorney was not present. The crowd, 
which had scattered to their homes the evening be- 
fore, were all in their places by half-past seven o’clock. 
A murmur of impatience passed up and down the 
line of men as they looked in vain for the prosecuting 
attorney. It was suggested by a dozen men that some- 
body ought to go and wake him up. Others thought 
that a man who could sleep so late in the morning 
when an important trial was in progress was not fit 
for the office, and that his superior in office ought 
to be notified to send a better man the next time he 
had an important case in Roxbury. At nine o’clock 
the long-looked-for prosecutor arrived. 

“We have been waiting for you some time, Mr. 
Walker. Are you ready to proceed with the case?” 

“Yes, sir; I am ready. The State rests its case 
here.” 

Everybody was- surprised. The men in the crowd 
were mad. They wanted to see somebody convicted 
beyond question before the State turned the case over 
to the defense. 

“That’s the way with the pesky courts,” said a tall 
man leaning against the back door; “send a little 
whippersnapper down here that don’t know nuthin’, 
and he rests his case before he has proved anything 
(• 74 ) 


THE TRIAL CONTINUED. 175 

at all. Our committee has got to take hold of this 
case ; I see that.” 

Capt. Clark arose and said: “If your honor please, I 
should like to have Jack Sears summoned and sworn.” 

Jack was standing at the door trying to look over 
a short man’s shoulder, and had no thought whatever 
that he would be called upon to testify in the case. 

“Gee whiz!” said he. “I like ter know what dey 
want wid dis nigger. I ain’t seed no money in so 
long I’d be as skeer’d of it as I would of a rattle- • 
snake. I don’t know nuthin’ ’tall ’bout dis heah 
stealin’.” 

The constable read the subpoena to him, and he 
took the witness stand. 

“Hold up your right hand and be sworn,” said the 
justice. 

Jack complied with the request. 

“What is your name ?” 

“Jack Sears.” 

“Where do you live? 

“Heah in Roxbury.” 

“Do you know James Cochran?” 

“Yes, sah; I knows ’im.” 

“How long have you known him ?” 

“About six months, I ’spects.” 

“Where did you first meet him?” 

“At Mistah Pryor’s. I hope ’em cut dey wheat dis 
yeah and las’.” 

“Was James Cochran there last year when you 
helped them to cut the wheat?” 

“Yes, sah; I done forgot. It’s bin mo’n a yeah 
sence I fust seed Jim.” 

“Did you help Jim Cochran get some chickens one 
night ?” 


176 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


The negro hesitated and rubbed his feet uneasily 
on the floor. 

“If your honor please,” said the prosecutor, “I 
would like to know what all this has to do with Mr. 
Murray’s five thousand dollars? I object to the ques- 
tion. It is wholly irrelevant.” 

Capt. Clark replied: “If your honor please, we in- 
tend to show by this witness that James Cochran, 
who poses as such an innocent Christian, is a com- 
mon thief, and all that -was needed in the case now 
pending was the opportunity to steal the money. We 
have proven that James has had the opportunity, and 
in fact he admits that himself.” 

Whereupon James arose and said: “If your honor 
please, may I have the privilege of saying a word, 
seeing that I have no lawyer to represent me?” 

“Yes, go ahead,” said the Court. 

“Well, sir, I think that it ought to be beneath the 
dignity of a man who poses as a lawyer to introduce 
base, low-flung niggers to testify against a man who 
has always stood above suspicion in this community. 
I resent Capt. Clark’s insinuation as an infamous 
lie.” 

“That’s right, Jim; stay with ’im; we are for you. 
Don’t you let that feller run no gag on you,” said a 
husky voice in the crowd. 

“Silence in the court room. Mr. Constable, find 
that man and arrest him. We cannot allow that sort 
of thing to go here,” said the judge. 

The constable looked for the man, but he could 
not be found. 

“Proceed with the examination, Captain. Jack, an- 
swer the Captain’s question,” said the judge. 


THE TRIAL CONTINUED. 1 77 

“Did you help James Cochran to get some chickens 
one night?” 

“Yes, sah.” 

“Where did you get them? and whose were they?” 

“Dey wuz Mr. McClellan’s chickens, sah, and we 
done git ’em right off de roostes.” 

“Did you pay for them?” 

“No, sah.” 

“Did James Cochran pay for them?” 

“No, sah, he nevah pay fur ’em.” 

“What did he do with them?” 

“He say he done promise Miss Mary Thornton to 
do somethin’ fur de po’, and he gwine fur to gin dem 
chickens to a po’ ol’ culud woman w’at lib des’ b’low 
de bridge.” 

“Take the witness,” said the Captain. 

“That’s all,” said the prosecutor. 

“Wait a minute, Jack,” said the Captain as he saw 
the negro about to leave the stand. “Was there any- 
body with you and James Cochran that night you got 
the chickens?” 

“Yes, sah ; Andy McCulloch was wid us.” 

Andy was brought in and sworn, and he corrobo- 
rated Jack’s testimony throughout. The prosecutor 
cross-examined Andy severely, and in some things 
had his testimony considerably confused. But the 
crowd was still with James Cochran, and a strong 
feeling of indignation against Capt. Clark was kept 
down only by the fear and dread which everybody 
had of him. 

“If your honor please, I should like to have Gus 
Murray sworn.” 

12 


178 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


“All his witnesses are niggers/’ said a voice con- 
temptuously. 

Gus took the stand, and the justice administered the 
oath. 

“What is your name?” 

“Gus Murray.” 

“Where do you live?” 

“I lib wid Mr. Murray.” 

“How long have you lived there ?” 

“I always lib’d dar’, sah ; I was bo’n in his house.” 

“Do you know Jim Cochran?” 

“Yes, sah; I knows ’im.” 

“Do you know anything about Jim Cochran’s chick- 
en-stealing ?” 

“If your honor please, it seems to me very unfair 
for Capt. Clark to spring this surprise on me, and 
introduce all these niggers to swear lies about my 
stealing chickens when I am charged with stealing 
five thousand dollars in money. Everybody here 
knows that I never stole a chicken in my life, and 
so do these vile niggers know it. Let Capt. Clark 
introduce a respectable witness to testify against me, 
and I won’t say a word,” said James. 

“That’s right, Jim : freeze to ’im,” said a voice in 
the crowd. 

“Who was that who spoke out then?” said the jus- 
tice ; but there was no answer. 

The constable made another ineffectual effort to 
discover who the intruder was, and the trial pro- 
ceeded. 

“Gus, do you know anything about Jim Cochran’s 
chicken-stealing ?” 

“Yes, sah; Jack Sears, he done tol’ me one night 


THE TRIAL CONTINUED. 


179 


’bout Jim Cochran he’pin’ ’im to steal o 1’ man Mc- 
Clellan’s chickens. Nex’ day I tol’ Mistah John Ca- 
rey ’bout hit when he wuz a-settin’ on de plow restin’, 
and Mistah John wuz so mad he want ter whup me 
right dar’ fur tellin’ a lie like dat on his best friend. 
Dat afternoon dar come up a big rain, and Mistah 
John and me tuk out des’ in time to git to de tool 
cabin ’fore de rain ’gin ter po’ down. Des’ as we wuz 
a-goin’ in de do’ we heah horse’s feet cornin’ putty 
lively down de road. We wait a minute, and Miss 
Mary Thornton done ride up and jump off her hoss 
des’ same as if she done got home, and she say to 
Mistah John, ‘My name is Mary Thornton; can I 
come in yo’ house till de rain is ober?’ and he say, 
‘Yes’m, you can; come right in.’ And she come in, 
and she stay till de rain done quit. And while she 
was dar’ she tol’ Mistah John ’bout a ‘Mercy and 
Help Band’ which her and Jim Cochran done formed; 
and she tell ’im ’bout Mistah Jim Cochran takin’ some 
chickens to a po’ ol’ cul’ud woman down by de bridge, 
des’ whar’ Jack says he tuk ’em. She say Mistah Jim 
Cochran done tell her all ’bout it.” 

“Is that all you know about the chicken business?” 

“Yes, sah; I b’l’eve it is.” 

“Did you take a note to Col. Thornton last Mon- 
day evening?” 

“Yes, sah.” 

“Tell the Court what you heard at the big spring 
as you went over.” 

“Well, now, we object to that. My time is pre- 
cious. The nigger has already gone beyond the lim- 
its of testimony in telling what he has heard. We 


i8o 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


don’t want any more hearsay evidence,” said Mr. 
Walker. 

“If your honor please, the witness is going to tes- 
tify to what he heard James Cochran say. Is not 
that legitimate testimony in this court?” 

“Yes, certainly,” said the justice; “proceed.” 

“Tell what you heard at the spring, Gus.” 

“I wuz goin’ ’long takin’ de note what Mistah Mur- 
ray done writ to Col. Thornton ; and when I come to de 
big spring I lay down dar’ fur to git me a drink, and 
I heah a man and a woman talkin’ des’ ’bove de spring. 
I lis’en, and I know dat wuz Mistah Jim Cochran’s 
voice, ’ca’se I heerd it lots of times; and I know it 
wuz Miss Mary Thornton* talkin’ to ’im, ’ca’se it wuz 
de same sweet voice w’at I heah dat day in de tool 
cabin. And Mistah Jim, he say: ‘Miss Mary, I done 
got de bes’ news you ever heah. My ol’ gran’muther, 
she dun take sick and die in Kentucky, and she lef’ 
me five thousand dollars; and it gwine ter be sent to 
me by mail, and I lookin’ fur it now ev’ry day/ Den 
he beg her fur to marry ’im, ’ca’se he goin’ to git de 
money sho’ fur to take keer of ’er like she orter be 
tuk keer uv. She put ’im off like, and he say: ‘Ef 
I bring de five thousand dollars and show it ter you, 
den will you lis’en to me?’ She say: T don’t know 
whether I will or not.’ Den I git up and go on to de 
house and give Col. Thornton de note ; and as I cum’ 
’long by de front po’ch dar’ set Miss Mary right at 
de cornah, and she say : ‘Hello, Gus ; is dat you ? How 
is Mistah John?’ I say: ‘He’s all right.’ Den she ax 
me whole lots o’ questions ’bout Mistah John, and den 
she say: ‘Gus, you know anything ’bout Mistah Jim 
Cochran?’ I say: ‘Yes, but I not gwine ter tell you 


THE TRIAL CONTINUED. l8l 

nothin’. She say: ‘Why?’ I sez: ‘It’s none of my 
business to be meddlin’ long wid white folks’ affairs/ 
I tell her: ‘I done tol’ Mistah John somethin’ ’bout 
Mistah Jim Cochran, and Mistah John was so mad 
he want ter whup me right dar’/ She say: ‘Tell me 
what you tell Mistah John, an’ I gin you dis heah 
quatah.’ I say: ‘Miss Mary, will you let me ax you 
one question?’ She say: ‘Yes/ Den I say: Was dat 
Mr. Jim Cochran what wuz a-talkin’ to you jes’ ’bove 
de spring while ago?’ She say: ‘Yes/ Den I tol’ her 
what Jack Sears done tell me ’bout dat chicken-steal- 
in’ business. She say: ‘Ah, Gus, you don’t b’l’eve 
dat, do you?’ An’ den she han’ me de quatah, an’ 
I went on home.” 

“That was Monday night of this week?” 

“Yes, sah ; it was Monday night.” 

“Where were you on Tuesday night?” 

“I wuz at a dance de niggahs had ober in Happy 
Holler.” 

“What time did you come home ?” 

“Hit wuz ’bout one o’clock, I reckon. I didn’t have 
no watch.” 

“Did you come by the store here ?” 

“Yes, sah.” 

“Tell the court what you saw as you were passing 
the store.” 

“As I come up to de cornah dar’ I seed a man 
unlock de store do’ and go in. I hid behind dat bar- 
rel settin’ out dar’ [pointing to it], and waited tell he 
come out. De moon was a-shinin’ des’ as bright as 
day, and it wuz Jim Cochran what come out de sto’.” 

“Who was with him?” 

“Nobody; he wuz by hisse’f.” 


i8a 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


“Are you sure that it was James Cochran?” 

“Yes, sah; I’m sho’ it wuz. I could see his face as 
plain as I can see it now.” 

James sprang to his feet and, rushing toward the 
witness stand, shouted: “You infernal liar, you know 
somebody gave you more than a quarter to tell that 
lie. Who hired you to do it? Speak” — 

“Sit down, Mr. Cochran!” shouted the justice. 

But James was wrought up to a high pitch of ex- 
citement, and continued to demand of the negro the 
name of the person who had hired him to tell that 
infamous lie. The constable took him by the arm 
and shook him vigorously. The crowd surged for- 
ward, excitedly, and for a few moments it looked like 
the justice’s court was about to end in a melee. In 
the midst of the confusion the unknown voice that 
had twice disturbed the court that session croaked 
out : “Stand to ’im, Jim ; he knows that is a lie. Here 
is a rope ; hang the blasted nigger.” 

“Who was that who spoke then, saying, ‘Hang the 
blasted nigger?’ ” asked the justice. 

“It was old Tate,” said a thin- voiced man in the 
crowd. 

“Mr. Constable, put Mr. Tate under arrest for dis- 
turbing the peace.” 

The constable went around and arrested Tate, who 
vigorously denied that he had said a word. Order 
was finally restored. 

“Any further questions to ask the witness?” said 
the justice. 

The attorneys answered at the same time : “None.” 

“You may stand aside, Gus. Call the next witness.” 

“If your honor please, I should like to have Miss 


THE TRIAL CONTINUED. 


183 


Mary Thornton take the witness stand. She is up at 
Mr. Murray’s house, and it will require a few min- 
utes for the constable to go and bring her down here.” 

“The court will take fifteen minutes’ recess,” said 
the judge. 

A regular buzz of human voices began at once. 
Everbody was discussing Gus’s testimony. It was 
clear that the crowd was divided in their opinion of 
it; but the most part believed that the negro had 
been hired and coached, and they were decidedly in 
favor of hanging him that night for the wholesome 
effect it would have on the other negroes of the com- 
munity. 

At the end of half an hour the constable returned 
and presented Mary Thornton to the Court. He ex- 
tended her his hand and helped her upon the counter, 
and told her to be seated. She was very much ex- 
cited. The color came and went from her fair cheeks 
as she looked into the faces of the men before her. 
She had never dreamed that she would be called upon 
to testify in court, and she regarded the whole per- 
formance with a horror indescribable. When the jus- 
tice said, “Lift up your right hand, Miss Mary, and 
be sworn,” all color forsook her, and she looked more 
like a corpse sitting there in the witness chair than 
the girl whose beauty captivated every young man 
who had seen her for the last three years. There was 
absolute silence in the court room. The men crowded 
together closer and closer, and every one was eagerly 
expecting a new sensation in the testimony of the fair 
witness on the stand. 

“What is your name?” 

“My name is Mary Thornton.” 


184 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


“Where do you live?” 

“I live at home with my father and mother,” said 
she, blushing for a moment and then turning deathly 
pale again.” 

“Your father lives near Roxbury, Miss Mary?” 

“O yes, sir.” 

“Miss Mary, do you know James Cochran.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Do you remember the storm that occurred about 

the third day of July?” 

)) 

xes, sir. 

“Where were you that day ?” 

“I went that day to take a basket of provisions to 
an old couple who live back of Mr. Murray’s farm.” 

“Were you caught in the storm on your way home?” 

“Yes, sir, and I stopped at Mr. Murray’s tool cabin.” 

“Whom did you find there?” 

“I found Mr. John Carey and a negro boy named 
Gus.” 

“While you were waiting for the storm to abate, 
did you tell John Carey about the band of ‘Mercy and 
Help’ which you and James Cochran had formed?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Did you tell him that James had taken some chick- 
ens to a poor old colored woman down by the bridge ?” 

“Yes, sir; I told him that James had told me he 
had taken some chickens there.” 

“Do you know where he got those chickens?” 

“No, sir; I do not.” 

“Did James Cochran call to see you last Monday 
evening ?” 

“Yes, sir,” said she, blushing; and the crowd was 
delighted to see the color leap into those pale cheeks 


THE TRIAL CONTINUED. 185 

again, and for a moment she looked as charmingly 
beautiful in their eyes as an angel just come down 
from the skies. But the flush was only for a mo- 
ment; it soon faded away, and a pallor more deadly 
followed. 

“By George, I’m afeer’d she’s goin’ to faint,” said 
the thin-voiced man. 

“Where did you entertain James that evening?” 

“It was very warm, and we walked out to a rustic 
seat beneath the large trees just above the spring.” 

“How far is that seat from the spring?” 

“I really do not know how far it is. Perhaps it is 
fifteen or twenty feet above the spring.” 

“Did James tell you while you were sitting there 
that he was to get five thousand dollars from his 
grandmother’s estate in Kentucky within a few days ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

A sensation swept over the audience. James had 
been standing listening to Miss Mary’s testimony and 
looking her straight in the face. Now his knees 
seemed to give away, and he sank down into a chair. 
The crowd that had been so enthusiastic for James 
were rapidly losing faith in him. He saw this, and 
dreaded the consequence. 

“Did you see Gus that evening after James left?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Did he tell you about James Cochran and Jack Sears 
and Andy McCulloch stealing Mr. McClellan’s chick- 
ens ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Did he tell you that he heard the conversation be- 
tween you and James that evening?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Take the witness, Mr. Walker.” 


1 86 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


“I have nothing to ask Miss Thornton,” said the 
prosecutor. 

“You may stand aside, Miss Mary,” said the justice. 

A half dozen men sprang forward to help her down 
from the counter ; but she gave her hand to John, who 
was standing near her, and his face lit up with new 
life and hope as he gently assisted her to the floor. 
The constable escorted her to the door. Her father 
was waiting there for her. He took her hand, and 
said : “Bravo, my dear child ; you did your part well. 
Go up to Mr. Murray’s and wait for me. I shall call 
for you after a while.” 

“Thank you, father,” said she, and was soon on 
her way. 

“If your honor please,” said Capt. Clark, “I would 
be glad if you would favor me once more with a short 
adjournment of the court. There is a witness, who 
lives about two miles away, whom I must have be- 
fore this court passes upon this case. I ask that you 
furnish the constable with a subpoena, and order him 
to accompany me to the place ; and if the witness can 
be found, we shall return with him as soon as possible.” 

“The court is adjourned for two hours,” said the 
judge. 

Capt. Clark stepped aside and held a whispered 
conversation with his first lieutenant. Presently he 
turned to the constable and said : “I am ready now ; 
let us go at once.” 

As they passed by the lieutenant he whispered: 
“Now is your time; don’t let any grass grow under 
your feet.” 

He and the constable went directly to James’s room 
to search for the money, which they supposed that he 
had hidden somewhere about the place. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


The Trial Concluded. 

Capt. Clark had asked for the adjournment of the 
court ostensibly to search for another witness, but in 
reality he had little expectation of finding the money 
in James’s room or any other witness to testify against 
him. But the search for the money would delay the 
court and give his trusted lieutenant time to work 
out the scheme which he had intrusted to his hands. 

As soon, therefore, as the Captain and the con- 
stable were out of sight the lieutenant and three oth- 
er members of the Vigilance Committee went up to 
the justice and asked a private interview with him. 
It was cheerfully granted, and the party stepped out 
of doors. There they asked the justice to give them 
an opportunity to put James Cochran in a private 
“sweat box,” pledging themselves to protect him 
from any violence of the mob, and to return him 
safe and sound as soon as the process was complete. 
Judge Curtis hesitated. James was his special friend, 
and he did not know what might come of this affair; 
but, fearing that something worse than what the lieu- 
tenant proposed might take place if he refused his 
request, he reluctantly consented. 

They went back into the store, and the lieutenant 
said to James: “James, step outside a moment.” He 
was terrified. It was the first time since his trial 
began that he had shown any special anxiety about 
himself. “We are not going to hurt you. We just 

(187) 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


1 88 

want to talk with you a little out here where the 
crowd cannot hear what is said.” 

He went with them. They took him out a hun- 
dred yards from the store, and the lieutenant said: 
“Now, Jim, there is no use in your lying any further 
about this matter. You know that negro Gus told 
the truth, and that young lady confirmed what he tes- 
tified against you. Everybody knows that you have 
that money, and you had just as well confess it.” 

James made no answer. He marked on the ground 
with his foot a number of meaningless hieroglyphics, 
and kept his eyes fixed upon the work as though it 
were a matter of absorbing interest. 

“Jim,” said the lieutenant, “the Vigilance Commit- 
tee have notified me that they intend to hang you to- 
night unless you confess the truth and give up the 
money.” 

“They will hang me if I do confess,” said James. 

“No, they won’t. I have Capt. Clark’s positive 
pledge that they shall not hurt a hair of your head 
if you will tell the whole truth and give up the 
money.” 

“Will you turn me loose and give me a chance to 
get away from here if I confess all and give up the 
money ?” 

“Go in, Tom,” said the lieutenant to one of the men 
with him, “and ask Squire Curtis to come out here.” 

He came at once. 

“Squire,” said the lieutenant, “James is just about 
to make a clean breast of the whole affair, and is 
waiting to know, if he tells the whole truth and 
gives up the money, whether you will permit him to 
leave the place at once.” 


THE TRIAL CONCLUDED. 1 89 

“Yes, I will, James. Tell the whole truth; that is 
the best for you,” said the justice. 

“Well, here goes then,” said James. “John Carey 
and I got the money. Gus was right when he said 
that he saw me go into the store by myself and come 
out by myself, but John was waiting for me right 
here where we are standing. We divided the money 
here in the moonlight. I have twenty-five hundred 
dollars. Here it is. I am glad to get rid of it.” 
He handed the money to Judge Curtis; and he in 
turn bade him good-by, and told him that he could 
go. Mr. Pryor had ridden James’s horse to the tri- 
al; and James sprang on him, and, putting the whip 
to him, was gone before the justice had time to col- 
lect his thoughts sufficiently to know what he had 
done. 

“Go in and bring John out here,” said the lieuten- 
ant. 

One of the men ran into the store, and soon re- 
turned bringing John with him. 

“John,” said the lieutenant, “James has made a full 
confession and given up his part of the money, 
twenty-five hundred dollars. He says that you have 
the balance. The Vigilance Committee have deter- 
mined to hang you if you do not confess and give up 
that money. Come now; be a man and own up.” 

“Gentlemen, you can hang me if you wish, but as 
God is my judge I know nothing about that money; 
I haven’t a cent of it.” 

They begged him to confess. They pointed out 
to him the terror of the Vigilance Committee, they 
begged him to remember what an awful grief it 
would be to his mother for the committee to hang 


190 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


him, but he was unmoved. He said: “Gentlemen, I 
cannot help it. I did not steal the money. James 
did not give me a dollar of it. I have not seen it 
since I showed it to James and put it back in its hid- 
ing place in the calico.” 

They went back to the store and reported what had 
been done. They repeated James’s confession, and 
showed the money which he had given them. They 
told the crowd what James had said about the divi- 
sion of the money. They told them, too, that they 
had brought pressure to bear upon John to induce 
him to confess, but instead he« persistently maintained 
his innocence. 

“Make him tell it,” said a strong voice. 

“How are you going to do it?” said another. 

“I can make him tell it, I’ll bet you my bottom 
dollar,” said a husky voice. “Here is a necktie that 
will be good for his jugular vein. I bet you when 
he wears this half a minute he’ll be glad enough to 
tell all he knows.” 

The crowd gave back while old Tate, waving a 
long rope over his head, approached the counter where 
John was standing. A wild shriek of terror, followed 
by a heavy thud upon the floor, attracted the atten- 
tion of the men for a moment. 

“O, that’s nuthin’; only John’s mother havin’ an- 
other one of them faintin’ spells,” said old Tate. 
“Carry her out and send for the doctor, and let’s go 

on with the hangin’ until the rascal is willin’ to 

squeal out the truth.” 

John stood undismayed, and steadily looked Tate 
in the eyes. 


THE TRIAL CONCLUDED. I9I 

“What’s the matter here?” shouted a strong voice 
at the door. 

Everybody turned and saw Capt. Clark standing 
in the door. 

“Gus, don’t shoot,” said the Captain, as he glanced 
at the crowd and saw Gus’s pistol leveled at old 
Tate’s head. 

Gus obeyed the order, and put up his pistol. Then 
the Captain marched up to Tate, and said: “What are 
you doing, you old devil? Drop that rope instantly, 
or I shall order my men to hang you without judge 
or jury.” 

Tate, trembling from head to foot, dropped the 
rope and skulked behind Judge Curtis, and sat down 
so as not to be seen. 

The Captain’s lieutenant reported what had oc- 
curred during his absence. It put the Captain in a 
towering rage. He shook his fist in the face of the 
prosecutor and the frightened justice of the peace, 
and told them that they were violators of the law, in 
that they had allowed a guilty man to escape before 
his trial was complete. The prosecutor declared that 
he knew nothing about the matter, that they took 
James out of doors, and that he did not know he 
was going until they came in and reported that he 
was gone. The justice could not say a word. 

“You had no right to turn that scoundrel loose,” 
said the Captain to the justice, “but crimination and 
recrimination will not mend matters. Adjourn the 
court until the culprit can be caught and brought 
back.” And then, speaking to the lieutenant, he 
said: “Jake, take with you the constable and two 
other fellows and follow Jim Cochran, and overtake 


192 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


him and bring him back here as quickly as you pos- 
sibly can.” 

The Court ordered certain men to take charge of 
John, and declared the court adjourned until the posse 
should return with the prisoner; and the crowd in 
great confusion went out on the street to talk mat- 
ters over until a late hour at night, and when at last 
the lieutenant and his party did not return with the 
prisoner they went to their homes. 

James had been gone nearly three hours when the 
lieutenant and his posse started. They soon got on 
his track, and pursued him hotly until ten o’clock 
that night; but they could not come up with him. 
They lost the trail, and at twelve o’clock they put up 
at a farmer’s and stayed until morning. They got 
some fresh horses from the farmer, and started again 
at daylight. They saw nothing of him, heard noth- 
ing of him, until late in the afternoon. As they were 
riding across the prairie they saw a figure moving 
in front of them. They rushed forward. After a 
while they could tell that the figure was a man on a 
horse. After a little he seemed conscious that some- 
body was pursuing him, and he quickened his pace. 
Across the prairie two miles away was the railroad, 
and the man was evidently hastening toward the 
depot there. They pushed forward with greater ea- 
gerness. He urged his horse to greater speed, but 
the poor animal was so tired that it could go no 
faster. They could now recognize James on the horse. 
They were gaining on him rapidly. Soon the race 
would be won. But he was within a hundred yards 
of the depot, and they heard the train whistle a mile 
away. They were three hundred yards behind him. 


THE TRIAL CONCLUDED. I93 

Now for dear life. Every animal strained every 
nerve and stretched out his long legs, straining ev- 
ery muscle to its highest tension. James reached the 
depot and sprang on to the platform. His faithful 
horse reeled, staggered, and dropped dead by the 
platform. In an instant the pursuers jumped upon 
the platform, and the constable laid his hand upon 
Jim’s shoulder. He did not resist. 

“Just in time to be too late,” said he. “It is too 
bad that I could not make that train.” 

They searched him, and found two thousand four 
hundred and twenty-five dollars in his pockets. He 
had lost seventy-five dollars in handling it without a 
light during the night. They took him back to Rox- 
bury. They arrived just at dark, and very few peo- 
ple knew of their coming. The justice and Mr. Mur- 
ray and Capt. Clark met them at the store. A con- 
sultation was held; and it was decided to guard the 
two boys in the store another night, and to continue 
the trial the next morning, beginning at eight o’clock. 

John took no notice of James’s return. He asked 
no questions about his capture. He did not speak to 
him when they brought him into the store. He did 
not appear to be at all concerned in what took place 
around him, or in what might take place on the mor- 
row. No one volunteered the information that was 
to lift the burden from his soul and set him free from 
the clutches of the law without a smirch left upon his 
reputation. It would have been a kindly office; but 
no one thought of it, or else it was thought best not 
to anticipate the action of the court. John was very 
tired, and in complete self-abandonment he threw 
*3 


i 9 4 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


himself upon his bed and slept soundly through the 
night. 

James was very tired too, but he could not sleep. 
He rolled and tossed upon his pallet in the deepest 
mental anguish all night long. The difference be- 
tween them was that John had met the fiercest of 
the storm in the beginning of the trial, and had suf- 
fered in anticipation of the very worst that could be- 
fall him, and was now waiting the conclusion, what- 
ever it might be, with perfect resignation. James, 
buoyant and hopeful in the beginning, saw now that 
doom had come at last. The dark cloud that had 
been slowly rising for nearly a week was now about 
to burst in all its fury upon his helpless, defenseless 
head. The fond dream of love, which he had foolishly 
supposed could be advanced by money and crime, had 
suddenly come to a disastrous end. Mary Thornton 
was as far from him now as the angels in heaven. 
The penitentiary would put an impassable gulf be- 
tween them forever. No hope of future good con- 
duct, even if he should live to complete his prison 
sentence, could avail him anything. As he lay there 
upon his couch he realized the horror and bitterness 
of his future as vividly as if he were now passing 
through it. He fancied that he could see the hand 
of fate creeping out of the sleeveless arm of night 
and writing “eternal doom” upon the wall opposite 
him. He could hear the laugh of the demons of 
darkness around him as they read his anguish and 
saw his miserable, helpless plight. He listened to 
John’s deep breathing, and thought how like it was 
to that which he had once heard in his own room! 
But how different the relations! Then John was 


THE TRIAL CONCLUDED. 1 95 

sleeping, while James was secretly planning his ruin; 
now he is quietly sleeping, and James’s ruin is pend- 
ing. When it is complete, his undoing will be 
John’s complete vindication. What would he not 
give for the ability to turn back the dial of time 
to-night, that they two might occupy the same re- 
lations they did then! If it could be so, he would 

not do what he did that night for the whole world. 

His tears fell freely, and he murmured: “O God, 
have mercy!” 

But, alas ! bitter repentance had come too late. 
The deed was done, and his destiny was sealed. 
He remembered, too, that he had seen Mary give 
her hand to John as she descended from the wit- 
ness stand, though a half dozen other men offered 
to assist her, and he wondered if she would become 
John’s after the mists and the doubts were cleared 

away. The evil spirit came upon him again at this 

thought, and he sincerely wished that something 
might happen before morning that would convict 
John too, though he knew that he was innocent. 
He would far rather that both should languish in 
prison together, though John’s punishment should 
be unjust, than that John should be happy with 
Mary. He did his best for the remainder of the 
night to frame a story that would incriminate John 
in the court next morning, but it was impossible for 
him to do it. The money was a witness to the guilt 
of the one and to the innocency of the other. He 
said : “When four thousand nine hundred and twenty- 
five dollars cry out in court, ‘J ames Cochran stole me/ 
there is no use to try to frame another story.” Thus 
the hours of the night dragged wearily, slowly along. 


196 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


Alas! how many nights like this were to mark the 
next five years of James’s life! 

The court was called promptly at eight o’clock the 
next morning. There were present at the opening 
the justice, the prosecuting attorney, the constable 
and his deputies, Capt. Clark, Mr. Murray, Mr. and 
Mrs. Carey, Mr. and Mrs. Cochran, the defendants, 
Gus, and about twenty other men who ran in from 
the street when they heard the constable call the 
court to order. 

There were very few preliminaries. Everybody 
was anxious to finish the business of the court as 
soon as possible. Judge Curtis looked haggard and 
worn, and was evidently sorely troubled. Mr. Mur- 
ray had urged the justice and the lawyers to dis- 
patch the business as rapidly as they could, and to 
take the prisoner away before the Vigilance Com- 
mittee could return. 

The justice took his place upon the counter, and 
said : “Call your first witness, Captain.” 

“The constable will please take the stand,” said 
the Captain. 

The constable took the stand, and told about the 
pursuit and capture of James Cochran; that they over- 
took him upon the platform of the depot, a hundred 
miles from Roxbury; and that they searched him, 
and found in his pockets twenty-four hundred and 
twenty-five dollars. He presented the money to the 
Court, and said further that James had confessed to 
him that the money belonged to Mr. Murray, and 
that he had stolen the whole five thousand dollars, 
but had lost seventy-five dollars in handling it in the 
night. 


THE TRIAL CONCLUDED. 


l 97 


At this juncture James arose and asked permis- 
sion of the Court to make a statement. It was 
granted. He slowly ascended the witness stand and 
sat down in the chair. He was as pale as death, and 
trembled with deep emotion as if he were now as- 
cending the scaffold for his final execution. “Gentle- 
men, ” he stammered, “I am glad of this opportunity 
to confess my crime, and to be free from the awful 
condemnation which I have suffered ever since I stole 
this money. I did it by myself. An evil spirit induced 
me to try to throw the crime upon John Carey, but 
I have been defeated. I induced John to go to my 
room, and while he was asleep I got up and took 
the key out of his pocket, and went to the store and 
took the money. You have caught me. I am ready 
for my punishment.” 

Perfect silence was maintained in the court room 
throughout James’s confession. He punctuated it 
with many sobs and tears, and, notwithstanding the 
heinousness of his crime, everybody present now felt 
sorry for him. 

“You may stand aside, James,” said the justice. 
“Call your next witness, Captain.” 

“We are through, your honor. The defense rests 
its case upon James’s confession.” 

“Do you wish to argue the case, gentlemen?” said 
the justice. 

“No, it is not necessary,” said both in one breath. 

“James Cochran, I bind you over in the sum of 
five thousand dollars, to await the action of the grand 
jury. John Carey, you are released from the cus- 
tody of the law. Mr. Constable, declare the court 
finally adjourned,” said the justice. 


198 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


John stared at the justice a moment in silence, 
hardly realizing that he was once more a free man. 
His mother ran to him and threw her arms around 
his neck in a frenzy of delight, saying: “O my son, 
I do thank God for this remarkable deliverance from 
what seemed to be impending fate! I know that he 
has heard and answered my prayers for you.” Then, 
giving place to his father, who was crowding up try- 
ing to grasp his hand, she turned to express her 
thanks to Capt. Clark, and to ask him to present his 
bill for his services. She said: “Capt. Clark, I want 
to” — He was gone. Immediately after the justice’s 
decision, wishing to avoid any demonstration toward 
himself, he had slipped out of the back door and, 
mounting his fleet-footed horse, hurriedly ridden 
away. 


CHAPTER XV. 

The Sequel. 

As Capt. Clark rode along toward his lonely home 
beyond the mountains he soliloquized thus : “I am 
profoundly thankful for three things: First, that the 
boys of the old Vigilance Committee were not there 
when James made his confession. I fear that they 
could not have been restrained from dealing out 
speedy justice to that bold scoundrel. In the sec- 
ond place, I am glad for her sake that I could do 
what I have done to save her boy. In the third 
place, I am devoutly thankful to the Giver of all 
blessings that, notwithstanding my many sins and 
unworthiness, he has granted me this great blessing, 
to go through this trial without Mrs. Carey’s once 
suspecting who I am.” And, with a heart lighter 
than it had been for many years, he rode along sing- 
ing the old hymns which his mother used to sing 
when he was a boy. At the door of his humble 
cabin he halted, and called a colored boy to come 
and get his horse. He went in and took down an 
old book from its place on the shelf in the corner 
of his room, brushed off the dust, and turned to a 
picture which he had kept there for many years. It 
was the face of a bright-eyed girl he had known in 
Alabama. “She has changed a great deal,” said he, 
“but I would have known her anywhere. I sorely 
grieved her once by getting furiously angry over a 
mere trifle. God knows how often I have repented, 

(• 99 ) 


200 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


but now I trust that in saving her boy I have so far 
atoned for my wrongdoing that the Good Being will 
have mercy upon my soul.” 

He was never seen away from home after the trial. 
He had few visitors during the summer months, and 
he spent the time in reading the Bible and medita- 
ting upon its sacred truths. In the following Decem- 
ber he was taken very sick with pneumonia. His 
faithful negro servant stood by his bedside, not know- 
ing how seriously sick his master was until he was 
near the end. A few of the neighbors came in; and 
as they stood around his bed he opened his eyes and 
stared at them inquiringly, and then, dropping back 
on his pillow, he murmured, “J°h n > you are free, 
thank God !” and the brave spirit was gone. 

The Vigilance Committee and his near neighbors 
attended his funeral. (John and his mother did not 
hear of his death for two full weeks after his burial.) 
They tenderly laid him to rest under a large oak tree 
upon the hill back of the house, where he had re- 
quested his servant to have him buried. They met 
often and talked of his heroic deeds and his manly, 
generous soul; but none of them ever knew the real 
secret of his interest in John Carey’s trial. 

After the crowd dispersed from the store, ‘Mr. 
Murray said to John: “John, this is a serious trouble 
you have been through. It was serious for us both, 
but I trust that you have learned a valuable lesson. 
I still have confidence in you. If you are willing to 
continue in my employ under the old contract and 
under the same conditions, go up to the house, get 
your dinner, and you and Gus go on to work.” 

John and his mother could not find words to ex- 


THE SEQUEL. 


201 


press their gratitude to Mr. Murray. They all went 
home with him to dinner; and in the afternoon Mr. 
and Mrs. Carey went home, happy in the deliverance 
of their boy, but happier still that Mr. Murray had 
not lost confidence in John. 

After the first burst of sympathy created by James’s 
penitent confession was over, there were few to mourn 
his misfortune. His father and mother and old Tate 
continued to grieve over the result of the trial. The 
parents were sorely distressed. Their only son was 
ruined. That was a grief by far the most withering 
and blighting that ever falls upon a human heart. It 
were kinder far of sinful children, if they would only 
stop to consider before their great sin is committed, 
to murder their fond parents outright than to heap 
upon them living the awful sorrow of their own dis- 
grace and ruin. 

As for Tate’s sorrow, it was merely a personal 
disappointment. He cared nothing for James; but 
his conviction had cleared John Carey, and made it 
possible for that youth to be much in his way before 
he secured the coveted land on which he held a mort- 
gage. We have no sympathy with his trouble; in- 
deed, we are delighted to know that anything can 
trouble him, and are not a little amused that so tri- 
fling a matter should trouble a full-grown man. But 
to Tate it was a serious affair. To his narrow soul 
there was no sorrow like that of a personal disap- 
pointment in money matters. To his mind death, 
family troubles, were nothing if they did not inter- 
fere with a man’s financial affairs. If in the world 
of lost spirits the punishment of the finally impeni- 
tent consists in the continual disappointment of their 


202 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


chief desires, Tate will forever be chasing a prom- 
ising speculation that will always elude his grasp just 
as he is about to realize the joy of it. His money will 
be either red-hot dollars, or it will turn to ashes as 
soon as it is poured into his hands. 

He was not present the morning the trial was con- 
cluded. As soon, however, as he heard of it he went 
over to Roxbury. He found Mr. Murray in the 
store. He was at work at his desk. Tate walked 
up to the desk and, placing his elbow upon the cor- 
ner of it, said to Mr. Murray: “Wall, I heerd you 
done cleared that thar’ John Carey and convicted 
Jim Cochran.” 

“Yes/’ said Mr. Murray. 

“I reck’n you hain’t goin’ to risk that thar’ John 
any more, though, are you?” 

“Yes, I am; he has already gone to work.” 

“I'll swan ; it do beat all,” said he, moving about as 
though he did not know just what to do or say. 

“Mr. Tate, have you that note and mortgage with 
you which you hold against the Careys ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I would like to pay it off, if it suits you to have it 
settled now.” 

“Wall, I don’t know that I keer specially ’bout hav- 
in’ it paid off. The farm is good fur it, and I’d ruth- 
er have the farm than the money.” 

“Mr. Tate, you will never get that farm. If I am 
living when it is sold, I shall buy it in, no matter 
what the cost; and if I die before the mortgage is 
foreclosed, I shall leave provision in my will for John 
to buy it in. You had just as well let me have it 
to-day, and save yourself further trouble.” 


THE SEQUEL. 


203 


“All right, then. If you are determined to have 
it, I reck’n you’ll have to have it. Here it is. The 
int’rust is just thirty dollars, and is due to-day. I 
came to town to take steps to have it foreclosed/’ 

Mr. Murray counted out five hundred and thirty 
dollars to him. He indorsed the papers to Mr. Mur- 
ray, threw them down on his desk, grabbed up his 
money, and quickly left the store. 

On reaching home his wife handed him a letter 
from his lawyer in Fort Smith, Ark., where he had 
invested a great deal of money. He had loaned one 
firm twenty-five thousand dollars to be invested in a 
large flouring mill, and took a mortgage on the prop- 
erty to secure it. He had also invested thirty thou- 
sand dollars in brick business houses, and had always 
contended that it was cheaper for every man to carry 
his own insurance than it was to pay out money to a 
foreign company. The letter from the lawyer was a 
startling revelation. The mill had burned, the insur- 
ance policy upon it was defective, and the company 
was fifty thousand dollars in debt. The fire had 
spread from the mill, and all of his business houses 
had been destroyed. In his mail was another letter 
from a lawyer in the county seat notifying him that 
at the next session of the circuit court he would file 
suit against him to set aside the title to the farm on 
which he lived, on the ground that Tate had secured 
the title fraudulently during the reconstruction days 
in the South, and that the heirs to the property were 
now of age and claimed their own. All of his trou- 
bles came at once. He saw that he was going to 
lose everything — money, home, and all else that he 
cared for. He walked the floor in great agony. His 


204 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


appetite forsook him, he could not sleep, and his flesh 
wasted away. The trial came on, and he lost his 
farm. He moved his family out, and settled in a log 
cabin in the mountains, where he spent the remainder 
of his life, without finding a soul except his wife to 
sympathize with him; and when at last he died, he 
died as a dog dies — unwept, unsung. No tombstone 
marks his grave; and he lives in the memory of men 
only as a despicable character, whom all good men 
justly despise. 

James could not give bond for his appearance at 
court, and had to go to jail. The grand jury indicted 
him for grand larceny, and his trial was set for the 
December term of court. Mr. Murray, John, Gus, 
Jack Sears, Andy McCulloch, and Mary Thornton 
were summoned as witnesses in the case. On the 
evening before they were to start to the trial Col. 
Thornton sent a note to Mr. Murray, saying that he 
greatly regretted that he was not able to go with 
Mary to the trial, and asking if Mr. Murray would 
not take her under his supervision and care until she 
could return home. Gus was sent with a reply to 
Col. Thornton signifying that Mr. Murray would be 
glad to take the oversight of Miss Mary after they 
reached the county seat, and that he would send one 
of the boys over in the morning to drive Miss Mary’s 
carriage. This duty he delegated to John, who ac- 
cepted it with a glad heart. 

John and Mary talked about many things on their 
way to the trial, but never once could he persuade 
himself to broach the subject that was glowing in his 
heart. 

The trial was hurried through in one day, and 


THE SEQUEL. 205 

James was convicted and sentenced to five years of 
hard labor in the State penitentiary. 

As they were driving out of town on their way 
home the next day John heaved a deep sigh, and 
said: “Poor James! This is a sad ending to a prom- 
ising life. I am sorry for him, notwithstanding he 
tried so hard to ruin me.” 

“Yes, I am sorry too. James had some noble im- 
pulses,” said Mary. 

“Miss Mary, may I ask if there was ever anything 
more than mere friendship between you and James?” 

“No, not on my part. I am sorry to say that there 
was more on his. I did feel great sympathy for him. 
He was a poor boy struggling to make his way in 
the world, and you know that sympathy is close akin 
to love. But I regret more than I can express that I 
did not tell James the whole truth concerning myself 
when first he revealed to me the tender passion of his 
heart. I ought to have told him then that my hand 
and my heart belonged by formal engagement to Mr. 
Charles Foster. I have never loved anybody else, and 
I suppose that I might as well tell you the whole 
truth now : I am to be married to him on New Year’s 
day, and I invite you to attend the wedding. I had 
a letter from Mr. Foster yesterday, in which he says 
that our new house in the State capital is finished and 
furnished, and that he will be in Roxbury in a few 
days to see me.” 

John was thunderstruck. He had not thought of 
a rival since James had dropped out of the contin- 
gency. But he knew that Mary’s wise intuition had 
divined his thoughts, and had read in his eyes the 
love that he had never dared to express; and, re- 


20 6 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


solving to profit by her past experience, she had made 
this announcement to save them both from great em- 
barrassment, and in doing so she had revealed the 
kindness of her nature as well as the wisdom of her 
foresight. For, although John had never declared 
his love, he was upon the eve of doing so. Now he 
would keep his secret. He would be a man, and care- 
fully conceal from her that he had ever cared more 
for her than for a personal friend. So, bracing him- 
self for the ordeal, he said with true gallantry: “I 
congratulate Mr. Charles Foster on having won the 
heart and the hand of the loveliest woman in the 
world; and I wish for his bride, my warm personal 
friend, the highest happiness this world can bestow.” 

Mary said: “I thank you, John. That compliment 
is more than I deserve; but I appreciate your kind- 
ness, and I wish for you some day the same blessed 
state of happiness that you have wished for me.” 

John dared not risk himself in a reply to that, and 
was discreetly silent. 

Mary Thornton was a woman of great tact. As 
she rode alone and talked to John she so directed the 
conversation as to exclude any reference to any feel- 
ing that he might entertain for her; and it was an 
interesting display of womanly foresight to see how 
she, in all candor and honesty, avoided the discussion 
of his disappointment, and led the conversation in 
such a manner as to forbid his thinking of himself, 
and really forcing him to hear about her devotion to 
Charles Foster with a great deal of interest if not of 
pleasure. 

John could not help feeling his great personal dis- 
appointment. He went home, and was very much 


THE SEQUEL. 


207 


dejected in spirit, but hoped that when he and Gus 
were once more out on the farm his old-time peace 
and happiness would return. But, alas ! he and 
Gus were never to be there again. Gus returned 
from the trial a very sick man. He had taken cold 
while sleeping in a negro cabin in the county seat. 
Pneumonia set in, and it was with great difficulty 
that he was enabled by the help of a friend to reach 
home. Mr. Murray was greatly alarmed about him 
from the first, and sent for his family physician at 
once, and everything that medical skill and kindness 
could do was done to save the boy's life. But the 
disease had taken too deep a hold upon him. In 
spite of all, he sank rapidly, and the faithful doctor 
saw that the end was not far away. At seven o'clock 
in the evening of John's return the doctor went to 
Mr. Murray's room, and told him that Gus could not 
live through the night, and that it was his opinion 
that he would die before midnight. He told him 
that Gus had pneumonia in both lungs, and that the 
air cells were filling up rapidly. 

Mr. Murray was greatly distressed. He first com- 
municated the sad news to his wife, and then to John 
and to others in his house. They all went to Gus’s 
room, Mr. Murray leading the procession. They 
found him fighting hard for his breath. His mother 
was bending over him, talking and crying all the 
while. Now she propped him up with pillows, and 
then she removed them, just as he fancied that the 
changed position gave him some ease. He was per- 
fectly conscious, though he was in great distress of 
mind and body. He was not willing to die. He felt 
that he was not prepared to die. He had hoped against 


208 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


hope until the doctor told him that nothing more could 
be done for him, and that he must now prepare to 
meet his God. 

His mother, though a professed Christian, was not 
very well prepared to instruct a dying soul how to 
come to God; and she was greatly rejoiced to see 
Mr. Murray and his company, and to have them take 
the responsibility of talking to Gus about his future 
welfare in his last moments. 

The only real religious instruction Gus had ever 
had he had received from Mrs. Murray. She had 
taken great delight in teaching him the way of life 
and salvation from the time he could talk and under- 
stand. She had taught him to say his prayers and 
to read the New Testament which she had given him 
for a Christmas present when he was six years old. 

The coming of so large a party into the sick room 
may have caused some little excitement, but it could 
not do the patient any harm. He was already sink- 
ing into death. 

Mr. Murray walked to the bed and laid his hand 
tenderly on Gus’s forehead. It was hot with fever. 

Gus looked up and, recognizing his old master, said : 
“Marse Ewin’, is dat you?” 

“Yes, Gus; I am here by your side.” 

“Marse Ewin’, you ’member when we use ter be 
’way down in Texas?” 

“Yes, I remember it very well.” 

“Does you ’member how we use ter go fishin’? and 
when my little legs git tired, how you use ter take 
me up on yer back and tote me all de way ?” 

“Yes, Gus; I remember it as if it had been yes- 
terday.” 


THE SEQUEL. 


209 


“Well, Marse Ewin , ) yo’ po’ little niggah done cum’ 
down to de big black riber, and his legs is so tired 
he cain’t go no fudder, and he hain’t got nobody fur 
to tote ’im.” 

“Look to Jesus, Gus; look to him by faith. He 
will go with you and carry you all the way.” 

“Yes, sah, massa; but would yer mind lif’in’ me 
up a bit on de wings of yo’ pra’rs so I kin see ’im?” 

All knelt by the bedside, and Mr. Murray poured 
forth his great soul in an earnest supplication for the 
dying boy. After the prayer the patient slept a little, 
and seemed a little rested. On waking he opened 
wide his big white eyes, and said: “Mistah John, is 
you heah?” 

“Yes, I am here, Gus. What is it?” 

“Well, I thought you wouldn’t let yo’ old pardnah 
slip off and you not be dar’ to say good-by. Mistah 
John, we’s be’n mighty good friends. I nevah done 
you but one mean thing. That wuz when I let dat 
bull git arter you and nevah tol’ you nuthin’ ’bout hit.” 

“That’s all right now, Gus.” 

“Mistah John, you ’members I stood by yer in dat 
trial when dat Jim Cochran try so hard fur to ruin 
you?” 

“Yes, Gus; I shall never forget that.” 

“Mistah John, don’t git mad at de po’ nigger, but 
I want ter ax ye has de good Lawd done furgive ye 
fur dem lies what you tell Marse Ewin’?” 

“Yes, I believe he has. I know that I have sin- 
cerely repented of them.” 

“Den, Mistah John, I wish you’d make des’ one 
pra’r for a po’ nigger what ain’t got nuthin’ to rec- 
ommend him to de good Lawd.” 

H 


210 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


All knelt by the bedside again, and John prayed 
fervently for the boy who had been his best friend 
in his greatest trouble. 

Then Gus slept again; but when he awoke he was 
much weaker, and he put out his hand feebly toward 
Mrs. Murray and said: “Miss Liz, is dat you?” 

“Yes, Gus; I am here. I have been here all the 
time. I am praying for you.” 

“Miss Liz, when I git to heben, if de good Lawd 
take me dar’, and dey ’lows niggers to go near de 
great white throne, I’se gwine right up to de Lawd 
Jesus and say to ’im: ‘Marse Jesus, please send a 
blessin’ every day to my ol’ missus. She done nu’sed 
me, and took keer me, and tol’ me ’bout you when I 
wuz little. She done pray fur me in her closet lots 
times when I wuz bad; and if you’s gwine ter let 
me stay in dis heah nice place, I neber gwine ter be 
satisfied till my ol’ missus and massa done come heah 
too.’ ” 

Then, turning his head toward John, he said: “And 
I gwine ter tell ’im ’bout you too, Mistah John, and 
how ye’s had lots of trouble, and how ye done git 
out uv it; and I’se gwine ter ax ’im to bring you 
dar’ too by and by, so’s we kin all git tugedder once 
mo’.” 

Then, looking fondly into Mr. Murray’s eyes, now 
filled with tears, he said: “Marse Ewin’, dar’ is my 
po’ ol’ mudder. She be mighty lonesome when I’m 
gone. Will you please, sah, take keer of her long as 
she libs, and neber let her go ’way to lib wid de com- 
mon niggers?” 

“Yes, I shall take care of her, Gus. Never fear 
about that.” 


THE SEQUEL. 


2 1 1 


“Gus,” said Mrs. Murray, “do you remember the 
prayer that I taught you when you were a little boy ?” 

“Y-e-s’um,” he said faintly and with great effort. 

“Say it, then, Gus, believing that the Lord Jesus 
sees and hears you.” 

He struggled for breath; then faintly, slowly the 
trembling voice uttered the words: “N-o-w I 1-a-y 
m-e d-o-w-n t-o s-l-e-e-p.” The lips stood half 
open, the strong frame quivered, the head rolled to 
one side, and all was over. The spirit had gone to 
meet its God, and the judgment day will reveal the 
rest. 

Mr. Murray had him buried as if he were his own 
son, and all in his house mourned for him with sin- 
cere sorrow. John was overwhelmed with grief. This 
was his first great bereavement; and it had followed 
his other troubles so closely, and Gus had been so 
intimately connected with it all, that he thought he 
could not bear it. For months afterwards he went 
about his work whistling softly in a minor key or 
humming: “I would not live always.” Often he sat 
upon the plow beam and thought of Gus and his first 
friendly warning, and, brushing the hot tears from 
his cheeks, he would say: “Well, it is no use; I must 
go to work.” 

Three years passed by, and the promised wedding 
between Charles Foster and Mary Thornton had not 
taken place. Charles was sick in bed the very day 
Mary told her heart’s secret to John. Within five 
weeks he died of typhoid fever. Mary was heart- 
broken. For more than a year she never ventured 
beyond her father’s front porch. But gradually the 
heavy weight of her sorrow was lifted, and her buoy- 


212 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


ant young life began to revive. She took up her old 
avocation of visiting and helping the poor and the 
needy. She went to church again. In the process 
of time she took her old place in the village choir; 
and her sweet voice, chastened by sorrow and attuned 
by grace, was far more attractive than it had ever 
been before. 

In the meantime great changes had been wrought 
in John’s life. A railroad had been built through 
the country, and a depot had been located on his 
father’s farm. The old lead mine, that had proven 
to be such a disastrous adventure to the Carey fam- 
ily, was taken up by a new firm that understood the 
business and had the money to properly carry it on. 
It was a paying business from the end of the first 
month, and at the end of fifteen months they had 
paid James Carey a royalty of fifty thousand dollars. 

John went to school two years in the old college 
on the hill, and finished his course and took his de- 
gree. Then his father gave him the money, and he 
purchased Mr. Murray’s plantation. His love for 
Mary Thornton had not lessened during these long, 
weary months. Cautiously he sought opportunity to 
see her again. She received him graciously, and a 
courtship followed that completely won her affection, 
and at the end of eighteen months they were happily 
married. 

The changes in Roxbury have been very great in 
the last few years. The old generation, which took 
an active part in the stirring events herein recorded, 
have nearly all gone to their eternal reward. Mr. 
and Mrs. Murray sleep side by side under the green 
sod on the summit of the hill overlooking the village. 


THE SEQUEL. 


213 


A tall white marble shaft marks their last resting 
place. It bears a tender and loving tribute to their 
memory from the good people of Roxbury. Poets 
and historians have sung the deeds and written the 
stories of the world’s greatest heroes; but when God 
shall open the book that is to reveal true nobility of 
character and honest and righteous living in the hum- 
ble walks of life, there will be emblazoned upon its 
sacred page the revered name of Ewing Murray and 
his devoted wife, Elizabeth. 

John and Mary now live in Mr. Murray’s old home, 
remodeled and refurnished, and all the comforts of 
a country life are theirs. They have two bright, 
happy children, named respectively Ewing Murray 
and Elizabeth Thornton. John is known far and 
wide as a man of solid integrity, who has never been 
known to break his word or to violate a trust since 
his unfortunate experience with James Cochran. He 
lived with Mr. Murray until the day of his death, 
and then attended the last sad rites with the tender- 
ness and affection of a son. 

The old college upon the hill, the pride and joy of 
many hearts for half a century, was destroyed by 
fire the next year after Mr. Murray’s death. There 
was no man left in the village with the ability or the 
disposition to rebuild it. 

The railroad, of which we have spoken, pushed its 
way through the county, and left Roxbury twelve 
miles distant from its nearest point. Then all was 
changed. Some of the old business men moved to 
the railroad; others, one by one, went to the quiet 
city of the dead, and were laid to rest there near the 


214 


A BETRAYED TRUST. 


one man of the village whom everybody loved and 
admired. 

As we write, the twilight of Roxbury’s history has 
set in. Slowly the light fades from her western sky; 
gradually the shadows deepen; soon the veil of eter- 
nal night will fall over the entire village, and dear 
old Roxbury will be lost to mortal sight forever. 

























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14 1903 












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